


Along Came A Spider

by EatYourSparkOut



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Blood and Gore, Bondage, Both normal and expected tags when Tarantulas is involved, Brainwashing, Breeding, Cannibalism, Claiming, Coercion, Collars, Conditioning, Dirty Talk, Docking, Drug-Induced Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Food Porn, Forced Orgasm, Identity Issues, Isolation, Kidnapping, Knotting, M/M, Mindbreak, More Questionable Tags To Follow, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Oviposition, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Pseudo-Incest, Somnophilia, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Stockholm Syndrome, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-09-20 05:31:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9477695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatYourSparkOut/pseuds/EatYourSparkOut
Summary: Springer had seen and endured his fair share of horrors during the war, but nothing could have prepared him for Tarantulas.AKA Tarantulas has Plans and Springer Does Not Want (until he does).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This is my first TF fic, and it probably says something that it took rarepair darkfic to get me to come crawling out of the woodwork. Anyway, this fic was spawned by some _excellent_ conversation on the TF Discord, so props to the NSFW channel at large. It's funny because usually I'm a huge fan of Tarantulas/Prowl (soft content, manipulative bfs, give it all to me), but this idea was just too tempting to pass up. 
> 
> The prompt: After that _spectacular_ rejection in SOTW, Tarantulas decides to give up on Prowl; he sets his sights on his rediscovered 'creation' instead. 
> 
> I've taken a few liberties with canon, and I haven't read the comic in a while, so forgive me if any details seem wonky.
> 
> Disclaimer: This isn't a nice fic, so please heed the tags, and know what you're getting into before reading (especially regarding the potentially incestuous themes). I mean, they're robots, so it's all a little complicated, but better safe than sorry. 
> 
> Also, let's not kid ourselves. This is a self-indulgent, extended PWP. Tarantulas is gonna _wreck_ this wrecker.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught like a fly in a web.

Springer rebooted to spinning processors.

An overwhelming sense of disorientation swirled around his helm, and he groaned as his tanks curdled and threatened to overflow. He managed to force down the purge with some effort, but the acrid taste lingered, and he was besieged by a frame-wide ache that overrode any relief he might have felt.

He shook his helm to clear the static that had settled in, and balked at the oppressive silence which rose to replace it. 

Already-shaky vents stuttered to a halt. There was something  _very_ wrong here, and even amidst his nausea his sensors jumped to high-alert. This wasn’t his berthroom. In fact, he hadn’t been anywhere _near_ his berthroom recently, and he _definitely_ didn’t remember making the decision to recharge.

 _There’s no way I drank that much_ , he thought hazily.

Springer's frame might have already primed itself to react to any immediate threats, but his processors were struggling to keep up. He scanned his memory banks for the most recent entry and received a series of fractured datafiles—corrupted, but there.

Slowly, it came back to him.

The crew had been taking a brief shore leave on an inhabited planet—at an establishment which catered to organics and mecha alike. Kup had decided to hang around after the fight on Earth, but neither of them had been eager to get back to Cybertron. Instead they'd climbed back into the ship, and headed out in the opposite direction with no real plan. They'd taken odd jobs where they could—anything to keep them busy, but people would always need muscle—and they'd picked up a few bots along the way.

With the end of the war the Wreckers had been seeing a lot less action than they were used to, and Springer had decided they could do with a little _stress relief_ ,before they snapped and started pounding each other into the bulkheads—and not in the fun way. 

The engex had been flowing, and he’d had more than a few drinks but... 

No.

Faulty memory aside, it was pretty clear that this was more than a night of overindulgence, because when he'd tried to move two kliks ago he’d met resistance.

Now that his processors were almost up to speed, Springer investigated the source of that resistance, and it wasn't looking good. He was bound and suspended above the ground by a material which wrapped snugly around his limbs and frame. It was strong, and it was flexible, but he had no clue beyond that. There was no lighting in the room, and he could barely make out the outline of his own armor, let alone his bindings. 

 _Whatever it is, it won't be easy to get out of_ , he observed grimly.

Springer's chassis and limbs had been secured so thoroughly that only small movements were possible, and he tugged in vain—unable to get any kind of leverage. The material gave, but snapped quickly back to it’s original position; it was obvious there'd be no breaking his bonds like this.

The sinking sense of dread that had been gathering in his chest now settled firmly in in the pit of his fuel tank.

 _What the_ _**frag** have you gotten yourself into_? 

He’d tried some kinky slag in the berth before, but this was beyond that. This _reeked_ of foul play. Being bound like this wasn’t something he would've agreed to—no matter how overcharged, no matter how persuasive the mech—because the way he hung now, limbs stretched out helplessly, and completely unable to move? It was horrifyingly vulnerable. 

He doubted that he’d trust even Kup with bondage this... thorough.

Springer’s spark had begun pounding in his chassis. Forcing down the rising anxiety, he tried to take stock of the room he was in. Unfortunately, it was still nearly pitch black, and his optics strained to make out anything in the darkness. He could see the faint outline of a floor on the other end of the room, where a very dim glow emerged from another... tunnel? Underground then. Probably some kind of naturally occurring cavern, because he could just barely see the edges of a rough wall where the tunnel merged into the room.

Springer tried his comms. Nothing. His chronometer wasn't functioning either, so there was no telling how long he’d been out. And without some way to gauge the time that had passed, he didn’t even know if he was on the same _planet_. For all he knew, whoever had snatched him could have dragged him halfway across the galaxy by now.

He wracked his processor for any motivation someone could have for taking him. As a Wrecker he’d made any number of enemies, but most of them were dead, and without any other context he had little to go on.

His train of thought was interrupted by the faint, but unmistakeable scrape of metal across the ground—the sound of a mech walking. The noise came from the direction of the tunnel, and the pace was unhurried.

Springer fixed his optics on the outline in the darkness and waited.

The dim glow from the entrance illuminated the large and many-limbed mech who turned the corner, and Springer’s vents stalled. He'd seen those limbs before, and not too long ago. Was that—

“Lights on low,” rasped Tarantulas.

Rudimentary lighting flickered on with a hum, but even the dim setting had Springer cycling his optics to adjust. 

 _This slagger just doesn’t give up does he?_   he thought sourly. _Ruined his entire operation a few months ago and he's already back for more?_

Tarantulas had already proven that he had a knack for survival, so Springer wasn’t exactly _surprised_ to see that the spider had made it out of that fiasco in one piece. He hadn’t expected to be targeted though—at least not so _soon—_ and that was looking like a bigger and bigger mistake by the klik.

 _Stupid,_ he berated himself. _You've let your guard down since the war ended. Gotten sloppy._

And now he was paying for it. 

Tarantulas continued his languid approach, but said nothing as he crossed the room.

If Springer was being honest, everything about Tarantulas repulsed him. The many limbs, the furry expanse of his thighs and shoulders, and worst of all those clicking mandibles—set underneath far too many glinting optics, and an impenetrable visor. Springer wasn’t disgusted by beast-modes on principle, but something about Tarantulas' organic mimicry made his tanks churn. There was something fundamentally _wrong_ about the way he looked—the way he _moved_.

Springer had never been a huge bot, but he'd always considered himself on the decent end of the scale. At the very least, he usually didn’t have to look up to speak. Tarantulas though... Tarantulas was _big_.

At first glance his lithe figure fooled the optic. It made bots underestimate him, and the strength which lurked beneath that deceptive slenderness. Up close, the thin waist only served to accentuate his impressive height, and the sturdy power of his shoulders and thighs. He was gangly, but he _loomed._  

Springer tried not to let his apprehension show on his face. He was a Wrecker, and if Wreckers felt fear at times, well, they sure as slag didn’t show it.

_Especially not in front of slimy creeps like this._

He'd seen before how the scientist delighted in the discomfort of others, and revealing any of his... uneasiness, would just be asking for it. And really, what was Tarantulas compared to the likes of Overlord? Or any of the other countless battles he’d been a part of? One measly spider wasn't going to intimidate him that easily. 

Unfortunately, his frame didn't seem to agree, because the way Tarantulas was currently eyeing him made his plating crawl.

The spider had finally stepped within arm's reach, and now with a point of reference Springer could tell that he wasn't being held too far off the ground—probably hung in a corner where his restraints could be secured to the walls and ceiling. The position left him completely exposed.  

Springer's mind was racing. Tarantulas’ motivations in the past had been clear—Prowl’s cooperation. When that had failed, revenge. He doubted that his plans had changed drastically in the short time since their last meeting, but he wasn’t exactly sure where he fit into that puzzle.

Tarantulas continued to stare. The tension was getting unbearable.

Springer manually locked his joints, and tried his hardest not to squirm under his unrelenting gaze.

Finally, Tarantulas broke the fragile silence.

“I hope you’re not too uncomfortable,” he purred. “You understand that I have to take some precautions, considering how our last encounter went.”

Springer said nothing, and met Tarantulas’ gaze unflinchingly. He wasn’t going to rise to the bait.

Tarantulas however, was undeterred. 

“Nothing to say? I hardly believe that,” he tutted. “You were _very_ talkative the last time we met.” Amusement colored his tone. He was undoubtedly thinking about the confessions Springer had made under the influence of the guilt-machine—helpless to do anything but spill his guts in front of everyone.

Springer burned under his armor. He wanted to drive his fist through that smug face.

“I _do_  sincerely regret that... unfortunate incident. Had I known what I do now, I would _never_ have put you in harm’s way,” Tarantulas informed him.

He sounded almost contrite

Springer didn’t believe it for a klik.

He had no doubt that the only thing Tarantulas “regretted” about their last meeting was his own defeat, and the fact that Prowl had escaped his slimy claws. But if he wanted to play it that way, fine. Springer could play too.

“I’d ask for a refund on the room, but I have a feeling this is one of those ‘check in and don’t check out’ kind of places,” he said with a disdainful sneer.

Tarantulas chuckled softly.

“Oh, I’ll admit that the accommodations are a tad rustic, but it’s still a work in progress. You can hardly blame me after the little stunt you and your friends pulled," he admonished. "I had to start from scratch, you know, and new laboratories don’t just spring up overnight.” There was a small amount of bitterness underscoring his casual tone, but his mandibles flared briefly, in what Springer could only assume was the approximation of a smile.

Ugh.

“But the implication that I mean you any harm—why, that hurts me, dear spark. It truly does,” he simpered.

Springer had changed his mind. Screw playing along. A few lines, and he was _already_ sick of this stupid banter.

The pet names were just skeeving him out.

“Why am I here? What do you want?” he bit out.

Tarantulas waved one of those clawed servos dismissively. 

“All in good time,” he soothed. "That's not important right now. What's _important_ is that you're here. You have no idea how much I've been looking forward to this." Tarantulas was staring at him oddly, as though he were afraid that Springer would disappear should he look away. "We won't have to deal with any  _pesky interruptions_  this time, which means that we can finally spend some quality time together," he said, strangely intent.

Springer snorted. Because that wasn't creepy at _all_. 

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. But as cliche as it sounds—there’s really no use trying to escape. Your friends will be no help at all this time,” Tarantulas informed him.

Springer’s engine snarled abruptly. His optics flashed with sudden anger. 

 _“What have you done to them?”_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Updated: 5/11/2018) Psst. Hey, you. Yeah, you. 
> 
> Lately, I've noticed a resurgence of people reading this fic. And that's great! I'm glad you're all enjoying it <3
> 
> However, I wanted to let everyone know that this is currently in the middle of a major edit. I've tackled up to (ch. 5), but if you want to continue just keep in mind that this is my oldest work, and it's got quite a few inconsistencies. 
> 
> I'll hammer 'em out when I get the chance, but it's def a work in progress.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation escalates, and Springer faces some unpleasant truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of fic I've decided to mix Tarantulas designs. Claws are infinitely more fun to write than the mittens he has in IDW. 
> 
> There's a noncon warning for this chapter, but it's right there in the tags, so if you've come this far you probably know what you're getting into. Things aren't gonna get any better from here on out. That being said, I hope you enjoy!

If Tarantulas had taken them, then in a way the odds were stacked in Springer’s favor. He had faith in Kup—faith in the rest of the team, and their ability to get out of any mess and make one of their own.

If Tarantulas had killed them, there’d be hell to pay. That was this _team_ and yeah, everyone knew what they signed up for with the Wreckers, but at the end of the day they were still _his_ responsibility.

Too many good mechs had died on his watch already, and he didn't know know many more he could stand to lose. 

Tarantulas huffed—as if Springer’s anger was nothing more than an inconvenience and explanations a waste of his time.

“Your precious team cost me a great deal on Earth, but hardly everything," said Tarantulas, "and you weren't exactly hard to find. From what I understand, you Wreckers don't do _subtle._ " He took a moment to snicker. "I tracked your progress for a while, but your little excursion was too good of an opportunity to pass up. I had one of my contacts slip something into your drinks."

Springer shuttered his optics. 

"Don’t feel bad about being caught off guard; the substance is virtually undetectable by the Cybertronian system. None of you stood a chance,” he added gleefully.

The gloating only served to rile Springer further, but he capped a lid on his rising temper.

_Just answer the damn question already._

“Where are they?” he growled.

Tarantulas studied him closely, as though he were a particularly interesting bug he'd found crawling around on the ground—as if it were _bizarre_ that Springer was asking about the well-being of his friends with a voice full of justified rage. He waved a servo dismissively. He did that a lot, Springer had noticed.

“They’re fine. I had no reason to kill them. After all, bodies attract attention."

Springer stared, and waited for the other pede to fall. Tarantulas just laughed.

"Oh, they probably woke up with massive helmaches, but a bunch of big, strong bots like that?” he asked mockingly, before letting out a small snort. “They’ll manage.”

Springer allowed himself a small moment of relief. Having them here and within reach would have made his own situation slightly better, but he preferred it this way. He didn't have to worry about anything the scientist might inflict on them while he was trapped here, and they were free to start the search for him unhindered. Springer knew they’d find him eventually. He just had to hold out until then. 

 _It shouldn't take long if they enlist Prowls’s help_ , he thought distastefully. _He owes us one after all._

Tarantulas must have noticed the change because he spoke again, infuriatingly condescending.

“They have no idea where you are, my sweet," he said. "We’re _eons_ away from that dingy bar I found you in, so there’s no use in hoping for some grand, heroic rescue. I'm very good at covering my tracks.”

Springer itched to wipe that look off the spider’s face. How did a bot without a standard mouth manage to convey so much smug superiority?

The casual dismissal of his team irked the most.

“You underestimate them,” Springer rumbled lowly. They were good mechs—a capable group even without him at the head. Plus, they had Kup, and Springer had never known a bot more tenacious.

 _Stubborn old fool,_ he thought, with no small amount of affection.

They'd find him. He was sure of it.

Tarantulas shrugged, his limbs rippling in a nauseating wave of claws and fur. 

“I doubt it, but there’s no use dwelling on the subject. For the time being, you’re going nowhere," he said pointedly. "I removed all of those _pesky_ weapons you had deep-wired into your frame, so there’s no point in trying anything... rash.”

Springer's temper flared again.

“Go frag yourself.”

A strange glint appeared in Tarantulas' optics, but he made no response. The spider was in control, and he knew it.

Springer’s frustration broke.

“Seriously, _why am I here_? If you’re trying to get Prowl’s attention, it’s a lost cause. He’s off with his new buddies on the other side of the galaxy and I doubt he gives two s-”

Tarantulas’ laughter interrupted him mid-sentence. It began as a dry cackle, and morphed into a full-blown giggle halfway through. The sound wasn't entirely stable, and Springer stared in growing alarm. His armor ruffled instinctively.

It took nearly a breem, but Tarantulas eventually managed to get his mirth under control. He wheezed one last time, then slowly straightened up.

“I’m not interested in _Prowl_. No he made it _very_ clear what he thinks of continuing our little arrangement,” Tarantulas said contemptuously, his limbs twitching.

 _No small amount of bitterness there,_ observed Springer. Good to know. Weakness could be exploited.

“No,” continued Tarantulas, “I’m much more interested in _your_ cooperation, my dear Ostaros.” 

Springer furrowed his brow. The name was familiar; it echoed in the back of his processor like a bad dream. He still felt as if he was missing a vital piece of this picture, and it made him uneasy, but he also didn't have the patience to play Tarantulas' games.

“I think you’re a little confused,” he gritted out. “I don't know any  _Ostaros."_

"You do," responded Tarantulas softly. "Even if you don't remember."

That was... disconcerting. He forged on. 

"What makes you think I’d be _any_ more interested in what you have to offer than Prowl was?”

Tarantulas had to know what Springer thought of him. Right now for example, he was contemplating all the places he could tell the spider to stick it.

Tarantulas’ mandibles clicked together, and for the first time since this conversation had begun he looked a little irritated. 

“Well, I hardly said you had a _choice_ now did I?" he asked, with ominous implication. "I understand that everything is a bit overwhelming right now, but I’m positive that in time you’ll see just what I have to offer you.” Tarantulas paused. “After all, you’ve been away from home so long. It’s high time we reacquainted ourselves."

Tarantulas was gazing at him with a disturbing fondness that Springer didn’t care to analyze. He was too focused on the last part of that sentence. 

“What,” he grit out, “are you talking about?”.

Tarantulas stepped closer—directly in his personal space now—and Springer would have recoiled if he were capable. He steeled himself instead, and didn't even flinch as one of Tarantulas' servos reached out to rest on his midsection. It was too warm, and the way the stiff fur felt as Tarantulas began thumbing his chassis made Springer curl his lip in disgust. Claws scratched gently at his armor.

The material binding him obviously didn’t cover his whole frame. Not the way it had last time, as they'd all sat in their cocoons waiting to profess their guilt to the world. No, this time it crisscrossed over him in bands, allowing a fair amount of panelling to shine through.

 _Webbing_ , Springer finally acknowledged, with an imperceptible shudder.

Claws trailed across the gaps where his armor lay exposed. Tarantulas took advantage of them, caressing the seams just under Springer’s chestplate. His field was thick and cloying, and Springer could have choked on the oily feel of it seeping into his circuits.

“Why,” Tarantulas purred. “Has no one told you? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Prowl does love his secrets.”

“Told me _what_?” 

Tarantulas tilted his head slightly. 

“Why, that you’re _mine_ of course. That you’re the product of my labor, of years of hard work and dedication... of my _love_ really." Tarantulas' servos were moving lower as he spoke. "I thought you long dead, torn away from me by Prowl and his—his machinations,” he spat.

The claws slipped into the wires at his groin, but Springer ignored the small twinges being sent up his spinal strut with every light pluck. He was too caught up in whatever lie Tarantulas was spinning to protest.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but it’s not going to work. I was cold-constructed, just like millions of other bots,” he said irritably.

Tarantulas’ talons dug a little harder. Springer twitched.

“And could you get your servos off of me?” he hissed. He knew it was a futile gesture, but the spider’s attention was getting more difficult to ignore, and he didn't like where this was going. Not at _all_.

Trepidation crept slowly through his fuel lines like morning frost.

Tarantulas hummed, but didn’t let up. He seemed to come to a decision.

“It’ll be easier to show you,” he mused, and then his claws were scrabbling at the ports which lay hidden beneath Springer’s chest panels. Springer felt his first real jolt of panic since this confrontation had begun, and he frantically locked them down.

 _“Get off,”_ he snarled, but the panic seeped through. 

Tarantulas seemed to relish this small defiance, and it was with great enjoyment that he dug his claws underneath the panels, and began to painfully pry them open as Springer cursed. He wanted to curl up and defend his ports from the assault, but his attempts to struggle against the webbing were futile, and it wasn’t long before he was exposed.

Tarantulas let the covers drop to the cave floor as he ripped them off, and Springer flinched at the sound. He tenderly unspooled one of the wires he’d dug out, and the care with which he handled it was a sharp contrast to the harsh treatment of Springer's panels. Then again, Tarantulas had what he was after. With a sharp ‘snck’ his own panels opened. 

_I don’t want this._

“Don’t fight me, Ostaros. I’ve only got your best interests at spark,” Tarantulas soothed, and then amidst Springer’s renewed struggles he slipped the plug into the heat of his own frame.

The port squeezed around him, and Springer was blindsided by the intensity of the data which accompanied the initial connection. Before he could get his bearings, one of Tarantulas’ cables was worming its way into his own.

The plug was just on the edge of too large, and sensitive internal components tried desperately to cycle open and permit the intrusion. Despite the resistance, the plug pressed unrelentingly forward—forcing apart delicate mechanisms until finally, it slotted in. Springer could feel his port straining around the searing metal. It _throbbed_ , and against his will he groaned at the stretch.

Every part of Springer railed against the violation. He could _feel_  Tarantulas' delight at the involuntary shocks of pleasure the connection induced; it was being broadcast across the hardline, and Springer was forced to endure the knowledge that Tarantulas drew sick satisfaction from having him at his mercy. Arousal in response to such an intimate connection was deep-wired into every Cybertronian, and Springer fought valiantly against the sensation, but there was no avoiding the physical response. He trembled. 

The scientist had massive firewalls up, and they looked near impenetrable. As a result, Springer received only the fleeting feelings and thoughts running along the surface of Tarantulas' mind. Tarantulas had made no move to break through his own firewalls, which was mildly relieving, but it was of little comfort as his mind pressed obtrusively against Springer's. 

[Now, the truth comes out] murmured Tarantulas along the connection.

He transferred a datafile and Springer opened it without argument—in the hopes that cooperation would get Tarantulas out of his systems before he purged. He was mildly surprised to see that it was a collection of memories, and with each one that he viewed Springer became more and more dismayed.

He saw everything.

He saw Tarantulas’ initial trials—and his failures. He saw Prowl’s involvement, and the lingering longing which Tarantulas couldn't scrub away entirely. There was his elation when he was finally successful—his _happiness_ at creating a life with his own servos, and with his own scientific prowess.

Springer saw how the lifeform grew—how it began to take form and resemble a bot... and how it learned. He saw Prowl’s betrayal, and the crushing belief that Ostaros was dead, as Tarantulas languished in the noisemaze. And then finally, years later, Prowl’s confession.

 _He still lives._  

During the transfer, Tarantulas had continued to feed a steady stream of charge through the wires connecting them. It had grown in intensity, until Springer panted and squirmed away from the feeling. His already overwhelmed processor was dragged out of the memory dump and into pure, electrifying sensation.

Lightning jumped across his sensor net, and he teetered on the brink of an unwanted overload. Springer resisted the best he could, but he was being swamped by charge and it was too much. Between the warm port clutching snugly at his plug, and the too-large cable crammed into his own pulsating port, he didn't stand a chance.

The pleasure built, and Tarantulas encouraged it insistently. He broadcast his euphoria over the hardline at being the cause of this; he wanted Springer's overload and would take it if neccessary. He sent one more concentrated pulse of sensation to overwhelm Springer's processor, and then his claws were pressing at the overstuffed port on Springer’s chest, fondling the connection point.

The shift of the plug inside him generated friction that turned Springer's frame to molten metal, and he let out a strangled moan as the sensation peaked, dragging him down into a spiral of unwilling bliss. His optics flared, and he arched as far as the webbing would allow as the overload swept through him.

Tarantulas sighed as the wave of charge swept over his own sensor-net, but he didn’t overload—merely shivered contentedly before gently disconnecting them. Pulled from the warmth of his frame, Springer’s plug ached. Tarantulas' dragged along his over-sensitized port as it was removed, and he jerked at the sensation.  

His processors felt empty and hollow. 

Springer sagged in his bonds. He knew better to take Tarantulas at face value. Not even hardlines were infallible, and the scientist could have easily edited the information. There was no real _proof_ that Springer was that bot except for Prowl’s word which... let's face it, had always been unreliable at best. But neither did he have any evidence against it, and what did Tarantulas have to gain if it _wasn't_ true? Not his cooperation.

Most telling of all had been the complete lack of doubt in the files that Tarantulas had so gleefully imparted to him. There had been only satisfaction, and an affection that unsettled Springer on a visceral level.

He could deny it all he wanted, but if nothing else Tarantulas  _believed_ that Springer was his creation, and after viewing those files... somewhere deep down in his processor... so did he. It made the wandering hands which had slipped back down to caress the sensitive plating of his waist even more repulsive.

This time, Springer did shudder. He felt sick to his core.

“You’re disgusting,” he muttered, too shell-shocked to muster more of a reaction.

Tarantulas had begun humming low in his chest. It was nearly a purr. He gazed thoughtfully at Springer, and then reluctantly released him.

“It’s clearly a lot for you to take in,” he said with a pitying look. “But don’t fret Ostaros. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know one another.” He vented slowly. “You don’t know the anguish I felt when I thought you were lost. But _look_ at you. You’ve grown into such a beautiful, strong mech. I couldn’t be prouder…” Tarantulas trailed off, and his visor glinted as he gave Springer another once-over.

“Yes,” he murmured. “You’re absolutely perfect.”

Springer didn't respond. Tarantulas didn’t _deserve_ a reaction.

Whether this new information was true or not, it didn't matter. It didn't change who he was. When he got out of here he’d go hunting for the truth, and Prowl would answer to him. For now, he needed to focus all of his energy on escaping the clutches of the spider who was eyeing him so ravenously.

Springer had no doubt that whatever Tarantulas had planned for him was going to be... unpleasant.

Tarantulas turned around, and began walking towards the exit.

“We’ll be just like a family again—you’ll see," he muttered, still within audial range. "You may not believe me now, but I think you’ll change your mind in time.” 

As Tarantulas left he turned the lights off, plunging the room into darkness once more, and Springer was left to agonize over his parting words.

_I only want to take care of you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone that left kudos on the last chapter! Kudos and comments a happy writer make, so if you do want to encourage faster updates in the face of my hectic school/work life then validation is a great way to go about it ;D
> 
> Until next time~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone on my dash called my fic 'cursed', so this chapter is brought to you by a small amount of hurt, and a great big helping of spite.

It was days before Tarantulas returned. Or rather, it felt like days, but in all honesty Springer couldn’t be sure. He had no chronometer, no comms, and nothing to do but hang suspended in the darkness and stew in his own misery. Time blurred into one seamless expanse, with no end in sight. The only way he even knew it'd been a while was because of his persistently aching tank. 

Springer’s fuel had reached the end of its reserves. He was practically running on fumes. There was no way Tarantulas didn't know that, and yet the scientist made no appearance.

 _And why should he_? thought Springer bitterly.

Tarantulas knew what he was doing; this was undoubtedly part of his game. In his weakened state, Springer had nothing to do but dangle dismally and wait for the spider to return. When he got really desperate, Tarantulas would show up with energon to soothe his pain.

Springer wasn't stupid. He recognized basic conditioning when he saw it.

But knowing that didn't solve the issue of his fuel levels.  He was lethargic; his systems slow to respond to movement or thought. If Springer were to set pedes on the ground right now he’d probably buckle over, and the edges of his vision were beginning to blur in a mildly concerning way

And no matter how hard he tried to ignore them, his thoughts kept returning to the contents of those damn files.

Springer had replayed the memories countless times—analyzing every possible angle—and had resignedly accepted that they were true. His entire world had been turned inside out, and the timing and situation couldn't have been worse. Alright, so Prowl had lied to him—big surprise. But had others known as well? Impactor? Kup? Tarantulas had obviously fixated on him; he seemed to think that he _owned_ him, which was disturbing on a whole other level. Springer had been witness to Tarantulas’ _obsessive_ tendencies before, and it hadn't been pretty.

He'd tried to distract himself, but inevitably, his mind would be drawn back to wondering what Tarantulas had planned. Recharging hadn’t been much better. Three times he’d tried, and each time he'd woken up with a violently pounding spark—his ports twinging, and the ghost of claws skirting across his armor. Each time he'd woken up feeling _caged_.

Springer hadn't tried again.   

Things were looking grim, and he was feeling it. Kup would probably tell him that he’d trained him better than this—that he would make it through, just like he had everything else. But he was _tired_.

_Chin up, kid_. 

The familiar voice echoed at the back of his processor, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He still had people to fight for, and that kept him from sinking completely into despair.

Eventually—cycles, or maybe mega-cycles later, he couldn't be sure—the faint but familiar scrape of pedes on the ground emerged from the tunnel. Tarantulas was on his way.

This time, Springer was prepared for the spider to emerge from the shadows, but it didn’t help. Not when the very sight of him curdled the little fuel Springer had left in his tank. He eyed Tarantulas cagily, but shuttered his optics before the command for the lights came. When he onlined them again, he immediately wished he hadn’t.

Tarantulas held something in his servo, and it glinted in the light. A needle, attached to a vial of viscous green fluid. Springer tried not to stare and give away his sudden jolt of anxiety, but Tarantulas knew, as he always did. He held the syringe up higher, where Springer had no choice but to get a closer look at the liquid sliding around inside.

Tarantulas spoke softly, as if Springer was a mechanimal ready to dart away at a moment’s notice—as though he even had the _ability_ to do so.

“Now, there’s no need to worry, pet. I made this especially for you. It’s just a little something to... assist with the transition," he explained patronizingly. "All of this stress isn’t good for you, and I really can’t have you hurting yourself.” 

“Don’t come near me with that,” Springer spat, though he knew it was useless. _Completely fragging useless_.  

Tarantulas tutted. 

“I don’t expect you to accept any of this yet, but I also know better than to underestimate you, Ostaros. I’ve been restricting your fuel to keep you manageable—as I’m sure you’ve noticed—but that was only because I was busy perfecting _this_.” Tarantulas turned the vial in the light, and the fluid shifted sluggishly. “You see, I’ve been experimenting further with this form of mine—altering the venoms I’m capable of producing. Fascinating isn’t it? All of the wonderful things one can accomplish with a few chemicals?” he asked.

 _Drugs,_ thought Springer dully. He was already partially resigned to the next couple of hours in Tarantulas’ so-called care. There was no escape here. Still, he wouldn't just lay down and accept it.

“Drugging me doesn’t exactly seem like a good way to earn my _trust and acceptance,_ ” he pointed out scornfully.

Tarantulas clicked his mandibles together in excitement, and Springer got a quick glimpse of the horror lurking behind them.

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong! I’ve spent quite some time refining this particular batch. It induces passivity and suggestibility _very_  effectively. So you see, I’d say that this is in fact the _perfect_ way to earn your cooperation,” he countered gleefully.

A cold knot had formed in the bottom of Springer’s tank. Passivity was... well if not _fine_ , then expected. Any drugs Tarantulas pumped into him were bound to keep him from thinking effectively—from planning an escape or fighting back. But suggestibility? That was another danger altogether, and Tarantulas hummed as the apprehension spread across his face.

_Sick fragger. Figures he’d consider brainwashing an accomplishment_. 

Tarantulas stepped closer and reached for his helm. He flinched, but the sudden grip on his jaw was unyielding, and his helm was forced to the side—exposing vulnerable wires. He strained away, but then there was the sharp sting of a needle sliding into the cables at his throat, and it was useless.

A sudden wave of heat erupted from the injection site, and began to spread rapidly as Tarantulas injected more of the venom into his systems. Springer cursed. He struggled vainly, but Tarantulas only gripped tighter—his sharp claws digging in and leaving marks.

“Shh sh sh shhh, just let it happen,” Tarantulas soothed. His voice had dropped to a purr. Springer could feel it through his armor, and it penetrated to the very depths of his spark. His tanks lurched, but whether it was from fear or the effects of the drug he didn’t know.

The venom _burned_ as it traveled through his lines, and he let out a weak groan.

“There’s a good boy,” Tarantulas murmured. “We won’t need this forever—just in the beginning while you’re still prone to misbehavior. But don’t worry, I’m _sure_ you’re a quick learner. Everything else about you is exceptional, and I wouldn’t expect anything less from my creation.”

There was a brief spike of indignation at the patronizing tone, but at this point the fire had consumed his entire frame; it was gradually dulling to encompass him in a curling warmth, and already, Springer could feel the last remnants of his focus slipping away. It was as though the will to fight was draining out of his pedes, and pooling onto the ground below.

Tarantulas wasn’t finished. He was still speaking in that sickeningly sweet tone that Springer despised with all of his being. Only, he was suddenly finding it difficult to dredge up the same depth of revulsion. 

“Really, I’ve done you a favor by using the syringe. I’m perfectly capable of injecting the venom myself, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate me biting you.” Tarantulas paused. “Well, not at this stage anyway. Maybe later, when you ask nicely,” he mused.

When, not if. 

Springer distantly acknowledged that he ought to be concerned, but he was too busy floating on an endless sea of warmth. He’d never felt so relaxed—so weightless. 

 _How am I supposed to fight **this**_? he wondered drowsily. It was so much easier to just give in and float away on the static which had flooded his processor. Even forming coherent thoughts was becoming a struggle.

“I still don’t know what you want from me,” he muttered.

Tarantulas’ grip had relaxed. He was caressing Springer’s cheek with his thumb, and he leaned involuntarily into the touch.

“Didn’t I tell you before? All I want is to take care of you”.

The words sent a wave of contentment surging through Springer’s frame—one that had him going limp from its intensity.

 _The drug—it's messing with your processor_ , he tried to remind himself, but Tarantulas’ field was encasing him thoroughly, offering encouragement to sink into it. Springer’s own field fluttered weakly, and Tarantulas’ wrapped eagerly around it—latching on and allowing his satisfaction to wash over him.

Tarantulas sighed contentedly, and then his servos joined the fray. They ran over smooth plating, seeking sensitive cracks where claws could slip in and scrape at rarely-touched sensors. His meticulous exploration discovered erogenous areas that even Springer hadn't been aware of—little hidden nodes full of sensory data that begged to be handled.

 _It’s the drug_ , Springer thought blearily, his optics glazing over and mouth parting as Tarantulas made his way down. Springer called on the last remnants of his will to keep his panel from popping open at the first touch. His desire was tinged with no small amount of shame, and Tarantulas soaked it up through his field like he was the bot starved.

The teasing at his panel was relentless, and yet Tarantulas didn’t force anything. He thumbed the seams, rubbed circles into the rapidly warming metal and hummed. He seemed determined to make him cave, and Springer was rapidly weakening. Tarantulas hadn’t looked away from his face since he’d begun to touch him, and the heated stare—the knowledge that every expression Tarantulas wrung out of him was being analyzed and saved for future reference—only heightened his unwilling arousal.

Oh, the revulsion was still there, but it was buried; buried deep under the pleasant fog which had consumed Springer’s min, and whispered that giving in couldn’t possibly be so bad. Even more horrifying was the knowledge that Tarantulas hadn’t yet taken advantage of the _suggestibility_ the drug supposedly induced. Springer could feel it lingering at the edge of his processor—the urge to please in return, to submit. He wanted those servos all over his frame. All over his—

_Ohh_. 

Tarantulas had pressed a little harder, and a small groan escaped Springer’s lips as he did it again. His panel was leaking; he could feel the lubricant welling up behind the cover and beginning to seep through the cracks. And it seemed he had spoken too soon, because now Tarantulas leaned in to murmur somethingin his audial- a  _suggestion_.

“Open up, Ostaros. Open for me,my darling boy, and let me help you," he breathed. "This resistance is just silly. I won’t force you, because I don’t need to.”

 Springer tried to fight it—he _tried_.

 _That’s not my name_ , the last vestiges of his will insisted. The unfamiliar address reminded him where he was—reminded him what he was _doing_. For one brief moment clarity was almost within his grasp, but then it slipped away again into the pleasurable haze, and with a groan Springer gave in.

His panel slid open, releasing his spike into Tarantulas’ waiting servos. Springer spared a brief moment to be relieved that at least his valve had remained covered, but that quickly passed.

“Oh, how _lovely_. Is this for me?”

 _No. No, it’s not for you you sick fragger_ , thought Springer weakly, but his frame betrayed him, and he nodded weakly. Tarantulas wrapped his fingers around him and gave a smooth and sure tug. Springer wanted to weep—whether from pleasure or fear or revulsion or some combination of the three he didn’t know—and when Tarantulas began stroking him firmly he sobbed.

“Mmm I knew you just needed a firm hand, pet. And a firm something _else_ obviously,” rasped Tarantulas. “You’re absolutely delightful. Don’t hold back now; I want to _hear_ you, Ostaros.”

Springer was engulfed by that unrelenting desire to submit—to please the voice suggesting such wonderful things as his frame was bathed in warm desire. When Tarantulas thumbed at the head of his weeping spike, he couldn’t hold back a piteous moan.

“ _Perfect_ ,” Tarantulas breathed. He did it again, and Springer’s hips jerked into the movement.

“ _Please_ ," he gasped. He even didn’t know what he was begging for.

Tarantulas’ visor gleamed. One of his servos moved to the base of Springer’s spike, and he took a moment to rub underneath the ridges which lined the bottom half. Then, he wrapped his fingers all the way around the root and _squeezed_. Springer's back arched as much as the webbing would allow, and an undignified sound escaped his lips. Before he could recover, Tarantulas had begun to massage his spike rhythmically, and pure _throbbing_ ecstasy radiated throughout Springer's frame.

Tarantulas’ tone was conversational, but the words which spilled from between those mandibles were decidedly not.

“You have such a lovely spike, pet. It’s just as lovely as the rest of you." The praise flooded Springer's lines with artificial euphoria, and his processor begged for more. "I have _so_ many plans for this you know,” Tarantulas confided in him, as he caught the tip between his thumb and forefinger and pinched.

Springer jerked with a whine. Tarantulas needed to stop talking. His gyros were spinning out of control, and his frame struggled to vent the excess heat as it attempted to fight off both the drug plaguing his systems, and Tarantulas’ ministrations.

“You can continue to delude yourself, Ostaros. You can _pretend_ that you have some measure of control here, but it's only a waste of time,” Tarantulas chided. “Oh, the drugs certainly do their part, but they’re only enhancing what already exists. Deep down, you know you belong to me." His voice dropped a register “As does the delightfully hard and _pulsing_ spike I’ve got in my servos. There’s no denying your pleasure,” he rasped.

Deep down Springer despaired, but his frame rejoiced as Tarantulas redoubled his efforts and began stroking once more. The fluid dripping from the tip of his spike made the process that much easier, made the slide of the fur against the metal of his array even more heavenly. He was gasping—his vents straining to take in air—and he stared sightlessly as ecstasy surged through him with every thorough drag. 

“You want to overload for me, don’t you? _I_ certainly want you to. I want to see the culmination of your pleasure, and I want you to _know_ that I'm the one responsible. I control what you feel here pet, and before long you're going to  _thank_ me for it," Tarantulas informed him. A trail of fire blazed through Springer's spark at the words, and then Tarantulas slipped the tip of one of those talons _inside_ his transfluid canal and he was gone.

Springer convulsed. He knew he was sobbing, but there was no stopping it, and he didn’t care. Tarantulas dragged the overload out, and with every spurt of transfluid Springer's pleasure crested until finally it _hurt_. Tarantulas didn't let up until the oversensitivity was too much for even the venom's effects to counteract, and caused Springer to hiccup. 

“Now that wasn’t so difficult was it?” he asked gently. Springer shook his head weakly. What was left of his autonomy screamed at him from behind its cag—told him to resist, to not accept this indignity—but it was no match for the liquid bliss running through his lines. Why resist when he could bask in Tarantulas’ satisfaction? The fond gaze sent a tingle through his chassis, and in his current state he couldn't care less about whether it was artificial. The approval emanating from Tarantulas was a drug in and of itself; it spread across his field and infected Springer's until he couldn't tell where they were entwined.

Tarantulas reached out to caress his helm, brushing a thumb across his cheekplate.

“The first lesson is always the hardest, but you did _very_  well. I’m sure from here on out, we’ll have no problems,” he said gently. Springer leaned into the caress tiredly. 

Tarantulas removed a cloth from his subspace to clean him, and soon Springer's depressurized spike was back in its housing as though nothing had occurred at all—as though Tarantulas hadn't just dragged one of the most intense overloads of his life from his reluctant frame. Springer still had the presence of mind to wonder why Tarantulas hadn’t bothered to take care of himself, but the spider was speaking once more.

"You’re going to be very happy here," Tarantulas assured him.

Springer couldn't agree or disagree with the statement, as his systems were busy shutting down. His fuel levels had been practically non-existent to begin with, and the events of the last breem had drained the rest. He still felt fuzzy and weightless from the drug, and it encouraged his optics to shutter. As he faded, he felt another needle sliding into a line on his arm. This time it carried with it the sweet relief of energon. 

_See? Knew it_... 

Springer blacked out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, as much as seeing that post bummed me out, the feedback from you guys has helped a lot.  
> I'm glad you're all enjoying this fic as much as I am <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarantulas... indulges himself

Springer soon found himself living in a state of apathy.

Or rather, the pleasurable haze which clouded his thoughts had become so commonplace that he hardly remembered what it'd been like before the numbness. He’d had his chance to be disgusted after that first time—when the drug had finally worn off, and left him cold and shaking and utterly alone—but that too had passed. There’d been countless visits since; visits where he’d still been resistant to Tarantulas’ ministrations—where he’d despaired at the liberties taken with his frame, even in his drug-induced stupor—but that all seemed so distant now. The last few hadn't been so bad; he'd almost welcomed them.

He floated listless on a cloud of complacency. 

The drug wore off sometimes, when Tarantulas got so caught up in his work that he neglected to check up on him in time. But even those small moments of clarity were no longer exactly that. Even without the venom running through his lines, Springer was unable to shake the fuzz that clung heavily to his frame and processor.

During those moments, he often thought vaguely that he should be concerned that he _wasn’t_ concerned, but Tarantulas always showed up to administer another dose, and then he couldn’t be bothered. Tarantulas only wanted the best for him—only wanted to keep him happy. The webbing no longer felt so restrictive; its snug hold was almost a comfort. And when Springer considered his captor, his thoughts were increasingly tinged with longing instead of horror.

Occasionally, some buried part of his processor would ping him—insist that something wasn’t adding up—but really, what did Springer have to be upset about?

During his last visit, Tarantulas had said—to Springer’s dull surprise—that he’d been lowering the dosage gradually. Which meant that least some of his reactions were... his own. He’d said something about wanting Springer to _truly appreciate_ what he was being given.

Springer _did._ But the visits never truly soothed the ache in his spark that demanded _more._ All this time, and Tarantulas had never done more than touch his spike or frame. He hadn’t gone for Springer's valve or spark, or even returned to his ports. Neither had he taken any pleasure for himself. It was just the same never-ending routine.

He'd gotten used to it, in a way. He'd be left alone, and only when he began to acutely feel Tarantulas' absence would the spider return to relieve his suffering. He'd wrap his clever servos around Springer’s all-too-desperate spike and coo praises into his audial as he drove him to overload after overload. Then, he’d clean Springer off lovingly and make sure he refueled, before heading off to do Primus-knows-what in his laboratory. It was never enough, but it did ensure one thing.

Springer was completely enthralled.

If he harbored any bitterness, it was that Tarantulas didn't visit him more often, because at this point Springer _craved_ his touch every waking moment. A buried part of him acknowledged that this was how conditioning worked—that Tarantulas was manipulating him like a puppetmaster—but he shrugged it off. What did it matter? He _was_ happy here, with Tarantulas’ careful attention. Why would he give this up?

_Your friends... they must be worried about you._

Some friends. He’d been here for Primus knows how long and there’d been no sign of them. They’d probably given up by now—abandoned him as a lost cause. 

_He_ wouldn’t leave Springer for long. He _always_ returned.  

Dimly, he recognized that some small part of him clung to the past, because even though he jumped at every suggestion Tarantulas made to _Ostaros,_ he still thought of himself as Springer. It didn’t really matter. Tarantulas was satisfied, and he didn’t need to know about this small concession to the part of himself that still felt nostalgic.

Springer had been feeling despondent lately, which meant that Tarantulas was overdue for a visit. The chilling emptiness that always settled in after being deprived of his presence for too long had started to seep into the edges of his frame. It had spread from his extremities to his chassis, bringing with it no small amount of anxiety. What if Tarantulas _didn’t_ return? What if Springer had displeased him in some way? Would he be left here to rust—discarded like a heap of scrap metal not worthy of the scientist’s attention? The thoughts plagued Springer for what felt like an eternity, as his frame was gradually consumed by the ice.

When the spider _finally_ made an appearance, Springer could have sobbed in relief. Anything to relieve the ache afflicting him.

Tarantulas had been right about the venom of course. He had begged for it. Just as he would now.

“Please,” Springer whispered, craning his neck away and presenting the lines there; they were already marred with the evidence of past injections, past _bite marks._ The venom left scars behind; small silvery pits in the metal of his throat which Tarantulas frequently enjoyed pointing out. Now, he practically purred at the enticement.

“I don’t know, pet. You’ve been doing so well on the lowered dose, and we wouldn’t want to set back the process of weaning you off entirely,” he said. Springer’s vents whined at the denial.

“Please,” he rasped again. “I need it. Just a little bit, _please_.” Desperation had shredded his composure long ago.

Fondness crept over Tarantulas’ face, and Springer’s spark jumped with feeble hope.

“Well... it _is_ a gradual process, I suppose. One small indulgence couldn't hurt,” he conceded.

Springer’s optics brightened. His relief must have been obvious, because Tarantulas held up a claw in admonition.

“Ah ah ah. Only a _small_ amount," he chastised. "We’ve come too far to disrupt all of your progress.” 

Tarantulas seemed to be waiting for a response, so after a pause Springer nodded weakly.

Then he stepped forward—wrapped him up in his many limbs, and gathered him close. Springer shuddered pleasantly at the warmth, and the soft fur pressing against his chilled armor. His spark beat faster in anticipation as Tarantulas nosed up under his chin. He could feel the hot vents against his throat grow stronger as the mandibles parted, and then they latched on, sinking deep.

The pain was agonizing, but brief, and he moaned quietly as the ecstasy he had been missing flooded his frame once again. His muddled sensors accepted the fangs buried in his throat as something absolutely _blissful,_  and he pressed into them helplessly, urging Tarantulas to bite harder. Tarantulas obliged, and he sound that left Springer's vocalizer was obscene. He moaned feebly in protest when Tarantulas finally detached himself, and raised his helm to look at Springer's enraptured expression.

“Do you realize the effect you have on me my sweet?” he crooned. “You’ve been such a great comfort to me here in my isolation. In fact, I’m afraid I have a confession to make.”

_A confession?_ wondered Springer muddily. Tarantulas spoke in riddles—constantly implying, constantly _insinuating,_ —and in this state he couldn't keep up.

Tarantulas drew a shaky vent. He pressed his mandibles directly against Springer’s audial and spoke lowly. “I think of you often while I’m lying in my berth at night, Ostaros. After a long day in the lab, the thought of you soothes my processor. I imagine your gorgeous frame, and the way it _bows_ for me. I imagine your lovely face, and the way it looks when I drag you into pleasure. And of course, I remember how you mewl so prettily under my claws—how very _responsive_ you are,” he breathed.

As if on cue, Springer released a whimper. He’d suspected—he’d _hoped,_ —but to hear confirmation of Tarantulas’ desire was intoxicating. Mixed with the _actual_ intoxicant seeping into his spark, it was nearly unbearable. His cooling fans were straining under the pressure.

_Please don’t stop, oh please don’t stop,_ he thought frantically, and Tarantulas didn’t. His words were filthy and hot, and Springer craned to hear them better.

“Would you like to hear _what_ I do? How I rub my node to the memory of you whimpering my name, or the way I _soak_ the berth when I think about everything I have planned for you?  Or how about the way I overload—fingers curling deep as I imagine it’s your spike?” Tarantulas asked. He nuzzled at the bite marks scattering the expanse of Springer’s throat, and his field flared out, needy and almost frantic. Tarantulas’ own enfolded it eagerly.

“Mmm, I’ve had my servos on your spike so many times now that I’ve practically memorized every delightful ridge and bump,” Tarantulas informed him slyly, “and I know _exactly_ how it would feel sliding against my calipers and _all_ the way up to my ceiling node.”

Springer was trembling. He opened his mouth to speak, but Tarantulas stopped him with a claw to his mouth.

“No, no darling. Don’t say a word. I’ve been neglecting you, I see that now.”

Springer shook his head empathetically. Tarantulas was anything but negligent.

_So that’s why he strings you up? Deprives you of social contact or food except on his whims?_ that nagging voice at the back of his head piped up. Springer hazily told it to shut up.

“Oh, I think otherwise," simpered Tarantulas. "It’s my fault. I’ve been so busy with my projects... of course I haven’t been paying you proper attention. Let me make it up to you, lovely.”

And then, to Springer’s shock, Tarantulas dropped to his _knees_. He met Springer’s gaze intently, before slowly spreading his thighs. Claws trailed up to slip under the cracks in his chestplate, and they must have been sensitive, those seams, because as the armor lifted and allowed Tarantulas further access his visor dimmed and his head lolled back with a breathless sigh.

Springer stared, enraptured. The extra limbs on the spider’s back curled inwards to stroke the expanse of fur within reach, including the tantalizingly exposed shoulder joints. Tarantulas took his time; limbs working in unison to put pressure on his most sensitive areas until the arousal emanated off of him in steady waves and assaulted Springer's own field. Springer tracked the slow downward slide of a servo with baited breath, and when Tarantulas' panels slid open his engine turned over.

Tarantulas circled his anterior node delicately; it was a bright yellow circle practically begging for attention.

“Do you like it? If you’re _very_ good I’ll let you touch later.”

A full-body shudder wracked Springer’s frame. Tarantulas may have been the one on his knees, but he still held all the power. He could do nothing but watch and hope for mercy.

_Finally,_ one of Tarantulas’ fingers pressed down onto the glowing node, and for the first time his impeccable control faltered. He breathed out a shaky moan, his limbs twitching erratically. The servo still at his chest delved deeper into the seam—reaching for neglected sensors—and suddenly it was as though a dam had broken. Now, the spider was rubbing slowly but firmly at his node, his vents hitching with each small circle.

There was fluid trickling down Tarantulas’ thighs, but Springer was hanging at the wrong angle. He couldn’t  _see_ , he could only _hear_ as two of Tarantulas’ fingers slid back and slipped inside his valve, his hips twitching into the movement. His node remained caught between his other fingers, and it flickered fitfully.

For a nano-klik, Springer entertained the idea that Tarantulas might let him wrap his derma around it.

“Ohh,” Tarantulas breathed. “I’m not usually so easily worked up, but I was thinking about you earlier Ostaros, and I just can’t help myself.”

Springer couldn’t tear his optics away. His plating was on _fire_ . He watched Tarantulas’ fingers undulate, and imagined what the slide of that valve would feel like against his aching spike. Was it as techno-organic as the rest of him? The angle of Tarantulas’ servo still obscured his vision, and the anticipation _hurt_. Every slick noise ratcheted Springer’s arousal higher.

He wanted to reach out and _touch_ the spider writhing on the ground in front of him, but he was still frustratingly bound, and could only watch desperately as Tarantulas brushed something deep inside and actually cried out. He curled into the movement, and did it again as electricity crackled across his frame.

Springer couldn’t take much more of this. He was panting—unable do anything but whine and plead with his optics and frame, and from the way Tarantulas twitched it only spurned him on.

“If I let you go, will you be a good bot?”

The weakly uttered words were so unexpected that Springer almost missed them.

_Yes. Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes._

Springer nodded vigorously. Tarantulas reluctantly pulled his fingers out of his valve, and stood up. This time, when he approached Springer he used his claws to slash the webbing which held him up, and Springer tumbled to the ground with a heavy thud. He landed painfully on his knees, and almost fell over—unused to the freedom of movement, and the effort required to balance on his own.

He didn’t have time to recover. Tarantulas nudged him immediately onto his back and clambered on top of him, and once again, Springer was reminded of his size; his weight settled firmly on Springer’s midsection—preventing escape.

_Run_ , a tiny part of his processor insisted, but the part currently in control was ecstatic. The knowledge that he was pinned down and at the spider’s mercy sent another surge of arousal through his field, which Tarantulas eagerly absorbed.

What’s more, he could feel the wet slide of Tarantulas’ valve against his armor, hot and enticing. All he had to do was shift back a little and Springer would feel that slick warmth on his spike. The thought was dizzying.

“I have something for you, my dear, if you think you’re ready for it,” murmured Tarantulas .

Springer groaned. He clutched weakly at the soft fur which covered the spider’s thighs, and Tarantulas stiffened briefly, but allowed it. He shifted himself to rub against the top of Springer’s spike, and he arched his back, trying to grind upwards. The ridges caught on plush mesh, and... something else? Something alien. _That_ didn’t feel like any valve he’d felt before.

The old apprehension reared it’s helm again. Springer tried to raise his own helm to look, but a firm hand on his chassis kept him down.

“No peaking now. It’s a _surprise_ ,” Tarantulas breathed. He ground down on Springer’s aching spike one more time for good measure, groaning as it caught against his anterior node. And then, before Springer knew it the tip of his spike was being lined up with Tarantulas’ valve, and the spider was sinking down.

Tarantulas seemed to savor the descent; his vents hitched and a breathy “ _Ostaros_ ” escaped his mouth. The inside of his valve was _textured_ —as though lined with small bristles—and the mesh rasped gently across the sensory nodes on Springer’s spike and—

_Oh Primus, what is that?_  

Something had shifted at the base of Tarantulas’ valve. _Several_ somethings in fact. Things that all of a sudden _grasped_ his spike, locking them together.

“Wha—” Springer gasped. He threw his helm back against the floor, sharp pleasure shooting from his spike and straight to his spark.

“Shhh, it’s nothing to worry about pet. This body just comes with a few... special features,” soothed Tarantulas. He leaned in to whisper sweetly. “My claspers are _very_ happy to see you, Ostaros.” A slightly gleeful wiggle of his hips emphasized the statement.

He ground down on Springer's spike with a groan, and as the claspers gripped tighter Springer was left teetering on the edge of exquisite pleasure, or maybe pain—he couldn't tell at this point. He was disoriented—and more than a little wary—but above all, he was dying of arousal, and at the moment he didn’t care _what_ Tarantulas had on his array so long as he fragged Springer through the floor and relieved some of this awful ache.

To his relief, Tarantulas picked up a stuttering pace. The claspers didn’t allow him a large range of motion, but they aided in a close grind which had the head of Springer’s spike rubbing insistently against Tarantulas’ ceiling node. He moved in tandem with Tarantulas—anything to intensify the rhythm which was sending liquid heat through his lines, and _oh_ he was so close already. His spike scraped gently at the raised nodes within Tarantulas’ valve, and he keened as the angle prodded at a particularly sensitive one.

“Those ridges are _heavenly_ , Ostaros,” gasped Tarantulas. “I knew they would be—hahh. Yes, just like _that._ ” 

The claspers pulled at his spike every time Tarantulas rose, and as his valve spasmed the rough interior cycled down and had him seeing stars. Springer’s own valve was leaking in sympathy; he could feel the lubricant pooling between his thighs. For a brief moment he imagined Tarantulas’ spike—still hidden in its panel—edging into his own valve and soothing the deep ache. The thought was so overwhelming that he arched; his vision filled with static, and his spike pressed harder against Tarantulas’ ceiling node. Tarantulas cried out and met him with a grind—sustaining the pressure until it was _impossibly_ good. How could _anything_ feel this good?

Tarantulas adjusted his angle so that his anterior node caught on the edge of Springer’s pelvic armor with every circle of his hips. He’d lost most of the composure he usually carried and was now babbling on Springer’s chest—mostly nonsense, but all along the lines of how perfect his spike was, how it stretched him so deliciously, how he was _made_ to fill him—and Springer couldn’t take it.

He bucked upwards into the constricting calipers—into the claspers winding around the base of his spike—and then Tarantulas was overloading with a squeal. Springer tumbled right after him with a strangled shout. White-hot pleasure radiated throughout his frame, and intensified with every pulse of his spike.

Tarantulas let out a small, contented moan as the aftershocks sent another minor overload stuttering through his frame. 

After a few moments he pulled himself off of Springer and collapsed, strutless. Springer’s own vents were struggling to take in enough air, but as overwhelming as the overload had been, it had also cleared out some of the fog. Enough for a small measure of shame to seep into his field. He lay there, too exhausted to do anything else.

_You could use this moment to run. Escape._ The first rebellious thought in weeks. It emerged from thin air, and even Springer was surprised by it. He nearly contemplated it for a second, but the idea was quickly squashed as Tarantulas broke the silence.

“...I did love Prowl, you know. He had a servo in _your_ creation, and he was... well. I’ve never met another bot with his drive—with such pure, undivided focus. He set his optics on something and he would _get it done,_ regardless of what it took.” Tarantulas sighed wistfully. “The way he manipulates everyone around him... such _ruthlessness_ is to be admired."

Springer stared. Out of all the things he'd expected Tarantulas to say, this wasn't one of them.

_Why is he telling me this?_

Tarantulas shrugged indifferently at the look.

“I’m not surprised that he betrayed me. I never expected any better. I had hoped that he could see the _potential_ our reunion held, but it doesn't matter, not really."

Springer remained silent.

“I have _you_ now Ostaros, and _that—_ that’s all that matters”.

_Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one didn't get edited as throughly as the others, so I may go back and tweak it later, but I hope it was a fun read nonetheless ;D
> 
> I also hope this chapter has answered one of life's age-old questions  
> https://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20121104225330AAH4frB
> 
> Yes. Yes he does.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Springer's been _naughty _.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the longest by far. I _almost _cut it, but I decided to be nice and post the whole thing anyway. Just don't expect me to make a habit of it! I doubt there'll be many more of this length, so enjoy it while you can ^^__

Gradually, Springer became aware of something incredible.

Tarantulas, for all of his genius, had miscalculated.

His decision to slowly reduce Springer's dosages had resulted from a desire to wrench ‘honest’ reactions from him, but in his enthusiasm he’d been too hasty. The last batch had been too weak, and it was quickly becoming clear to Springer that his conditioning couldn't entirely make up for the drug.

Shivers wracked his plating as he hung wretchedly in the gloom, and the clattering armor echoed in the cavern—a reminder of his own weakness. Withdrawal was bad enough on its own, but at the moment he was also busy contending with a self-loathing that threatened to overwhelm him. 

The past few—deca-cycles? mega-cycles?—had been playing on an endless loop. He was bathed in hot shame as he remembered how he'd welcomed Tarantulas’ touches—begged for them even. He’d been _interfacing_ the spider on a regular basis and _enjoying_ it. And now, in this semi-lucid state, he was being forced to come to terms with it.

It was made worse by the fact that the effects of his ‘conditioning’ were still there. The association between energon, attention, and the sweet promise of interface had been horrifying effective in reprogramming his responses. It pained him even now, as the two warring sides of his processor fought. It was so tempting to let go— to fall back into the pattern of pleasure and submission that had been trained into him for Primus-knows-how-long.

How long _had_ it been? He’d lost track of how many times Tarantulas had visited him here in his prison.

He knew that the spider would be back again soon—more than willing to give Springer's subconscious what it wanted. And oh, how he _wanted_.

But a sliver of his old resolve had peeked through, and this time he wasn’t going to let it go. Not even as the internal conflict ignited a helmache so fierce that he had to grit his denta to keep from groaning. The thought of the other wreckers—of Kup—was the only thing keeping him from lapsing back into the ease of submission.

The thoroughness of his conditioning wasn't the only thing Tarantulas had miscalculated; he'd also failed to consider the depth of the dedication Springer felt towards those he'd been snatched away from. In his overeagerness Tarantulas had finally given him an opportunity.

It was a minuscule one, but an opportunity nonetheless, and Springer meant to make the most of it.

The next time Tarantulas strode in, he schooled his expression. He’d been living it, he could fake it. He smoothed his face into one of subdued adoration as though it were second nature—and perhaps it was. Springer had to will himself still to keep from shuddering at the thought.

If there was any benefit to these sessions with Tarantulas, it was that he'd begun to earn the spider’s trust. It was time to take advantage of that. 

Springer allowed himself to be cut free. He allowed Tarantulas to sink down to the ground with him, and wrap him up in a familiar embrace. It was so simple to melt into it. He knew that he could stay here forever—protected and loved and well taken care of, even if it cost him his independence.

Energon rose in his throat as he remembered the way Tarantulas had violated him, but the feeling became almost _worse_ as he considered leaving his ‘devotion’. Springer clenched his jaw.

 _Focus,_ he berated himself miserably. _You’re better than this._

As Tarantulas made to have him lie back, he resisted slightly, and the spider paused incredulously. Springer would disobey _him?_

In return, Springer was pled with his optics. He pressed lightly against Tarantulas’ chest and breathed a request—begged even—with sweet words that revealed none of the turmoil roiling underneath.

 _Come on,_ he urged silently. _No ulterior motives here. Just a blissed out bot wanting to return the favor._

Springer was counting on Tarantulas’ tendency to indulge himself—counting on the small possibility that allowing himself to be spiked was a temptation the spider might just cave to.

Tarantulas eyed him warily, but slowly leaned back to rest on his elbow joints. He didn’t relax just yet, but allowed Springer to press forward and settle between his legs.

“I’m spoiling you,” Tarantulas muttered, but the steam that hissed from his vents as Springer shuffled closer undermined the reproach.

Springer let his fingers creep gently into seams. He prodded and caressed joints he had long-since learned were favorites, until Tarantulas’ engine was rumbling, and some of the tautness had dissolved from his frame. He knew that his own vents were going at full-blast. Even now, he couldn’t deny his arousal at having Tarantulas open and willing before him. 

He pushed his advantage slightly, moving forward until Tarantulas leaned farther back. It seemed as though he'd begun to abandon his earlier misgivings— pushing into the touches with small sighs. Springer leaned forward with parted derma, as though to kiss the mandibles just within his reach...

He struck.

His knee dug into Tarantulas’ vulnerable midsection. Thinner than the rest of him, the plating buckled beneath the force, and Springer used the momentum to push off. Tarantulas doubled up behind him with a pained screech, but he knew that soon the spider would be scrambling to chase after him.

Springer darted through the entrance, as fast as his weakened legs would carry him. He had no plan—no predetermined escape route—but pit if he'd allow himself to stay here a willing captive, not even trying _once_ to escape. So he ran, all the while hearing Tarantulas’ furious pursuit behind him.

Around the bend was a long tunnel—one which he bolted down as though his functioning depended on it. He came upon a fork and didn't give himself time to think, just veered left and hoped for the best. Another left. A right. There was no telling how close Tarantulas was; the sound of his frantically scrabbling claws bounced along the tunnels and muddled Springer’s perception. His spark was pounding so hard he thought it might burst out of his chestplates at any moment.

_He can’t catch you. If he catches you, you’re doomed._

The tunnels were lined with the same rudimentary lights as his prison. As he ran, he caught glimpses of partly developed rooms branching off of the larger pathways. The lab was clearly still a work in progress. It explained the lack of security measures.

Primus, if he could just find someplace to hide... somewhere to get his bearings. Running blindly in this maze was going to be the end of him—there was no way he’d find the exit like this. Even ducking into a room for a few moments would help, but he couldn’t be sure how close Tarantulas was.

Another left, but as Springer turned the corner he skidded to a halt, spark dropping like a rock. There’d been a tunnel here at some point, but it'd caved in. The pile of rocks blocking the passage meant that he’d have to turn back and pick another path. Hopefully Tarantulas hadn’t—

Someone collided into him from behind, knocking both of them to the floor with a painful crash. They landed in a tangle of limbs, and Springer struggled vainly to escape the merciless grip. For a second he almost managed to break free, but Tarantulas had the size advantage, and he’d been fueling properly—unlike Springer, who'd grown used to an empty tank and the telltale weakness in his limbs. That weakness which had become even more pronounced now that he'd expended all of his energy fleeing.

In an instant, Tarantulas had him flat on his stomach, pressing all of his considerable mass onto Springer to keep him pinned. He spat a curse in response.

The fury in Tarantulas’ voice froze his circuits.

“ _Clearly,_ I’ve been too accommodating.”

Tarantulas shoved Springer's head against the ground, and his helm scraped painfully against the hard surface.

“Clearly, I’ve been too _nice_ ," he hissed. "I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, Ostaros, I really did. You seemed to be doing so _well_. However, it’s now apparent to me that the 'firm servo' I've mentioned is _exactly_ what you need.”

Springer had made a mistake of his own in assuming that Tarantulas’ twisted affection would hold up against a stunt like this.

Or perhaps it had, but not in a way that was reassuring. Because in a split second the menace melted away, to be replaced by a parody of understanding. The vice-like grip didn’t let up as Tarantulas leaned forward to vent hotly against his audial.

“I know it can’t be easy, fixing all of the nasty habits you learned away from home. I realize that it’s going to take a little _time._  But Ostaros, you _are_ mine, and make no mistake—in the end you’re going to be _exactly_ what I want you to be. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be on both of us,” Tarantulas said, field bearing down until it was almost suffocating.

 Springer bucked up, trying to loosen the grip of the claws digging under his plating.

 “Get _off_ of me,” he snarled uselessly. _Primus, just kill me and be done with it._

Tarantulas slammed him back into the ground.

“ _That’s it_ ,” he hissed. “No more venom. It’s served its purpose, but it’s clear that it isn’t going to get us any farther. No, from now on it’s just you and me, Ostaros. I’m not going to allow you the _comfort_ of hiding behind a drug when you desire this as much as I do.”

 _I don’t,_  Springer thought desperately, even as Tarantulas’ claws crept inside sensitive hip joints, and his frame curled into the touches. He whined lowly against the floor, and tried to wriggle away from the insistent servos.

“Please, stop,” he begged. He _couldn’t._ Not like this, when half of his responses would be his own. 

Tarantulas tutted, and it wasn’t a nice sound. It was a sound that promised punishment. Springer knew that his field was wide open—oozing a discomfiting mixture of fear and lust, and it only spurred the spider on. There was anger there too, but at the moment it was being overwhelmed by the panic pulling at his spark, as well as an equally intense and unwilling desire.

Fingers rubbed insistently at his panel, the metal heating rapidly at the promise of skilled fingers finally reaching their mark. He was lubricating heavily despite his aversion, and Tarantulas was right—like this, Springer couldn’t deny the part of him that ached for his touch, and whispered that it wouldn’t be terrible to give in and stop this exhausting fight. He bit off a choked moan as the claws dug in and _scratched_ across his panel, reminding him that Tarantulas was still angry, that he wasn’t yet in the clear.

“Don’t get too comfortable, pet,” warned Tarantulas lowly. “You’ve misbehaved terribly, and I’m not about to let that go unpunished.”

Springer shuddered, his hips jerking into the servo. Even the threat of punishment wasn’t enough to deter his arousal, and a small part of him almost _welcomed_ it—the part that was disgustingly beholden to Tarantulas’ will, and insisted that he deserved this for even trying to get away. The other part wanted to weep—to despair at what he’d _become._ It demanded that he look at himself, writhing on the floor and craving his captor’s touch.

The pressure behind his panels had become almost unbearable, but Springer refused to open willingly. He wouldn’t—

One more harsh scrape and they snapped open. To his horror, Tarantulas didn't go for his spike—as he always had before. Instead, his fingers moved with purpose to Springer's already swollen node, rubbing firm circles just underneath and making him see stars. His spinal strut bent upward—away from a press that was just slightly too much—but Tarantulas didn’t let up.

Springer knew he was gasping—in short, wavering vents that betrayed how effected he was—but there was no helping it. He’d always had a hypersensitive valve; hence, why he didn’t use it very often. A few firm touches was usually all it took to turn him into a drooling, dazed mess, and he’d taken advantage of that in his own quarters on many an occasion.

But to have someone else's servos on his node—to have _Tarantulas_ pressing on it, with little care for how rough he was, or how his claws caught on the sensitive mesh... Primus it was, it was—

Springer almost sobbed as a small overload wracked his frame, hot lubricant trickling down his thighs. He arched off the floor helplessly.

“ _T_ _hat’s it_ ,” Tarantulas cooed. There was a harsh bite still present beneath the pleasant facade. “Don’t you see? There’s no hope for you, dear spark. I can do with you as I wish, and you’re going to love _every klik of it_ ”. He emphasized his words with a sharp pinch to Springer’s node, and he cried out as a wave of intense heat followed the pain, catapulting him into another overload.

Tarantulas cackled.

“Sensitive, are we? Or do you just want me this much?”

Springer could do little more than twist around on the ground, writhing as the spider played him like an instrument. He stared unseeing, mouth agape as his vents struggled to disperse the heat swamping his frame.

The claws took pity on his throbbing node, but only to make their way farther down—dragging across oversensitized mesh so that two could slip inside his empty valve. The sheer amount of lubricant meant that there was practically no resistance, and Springer gave in, allowing a heady moan to escape his lips. He pressed desperately into the intrusion. When was the last time he’d had anything in his valve besides his own fingers? He felt as though he was being split in two by the ecstasy that pulsed through him, calipers grasping desperately at the claws.

When Tarantulas began to methodically search out each of his hypersensitive nodes he whimpered, twisting into the touch. Tarantulas’ engine rumbled approvingly against his back, and the vibrations nearly sent Springer over the edge again. He spoke lowly into Springer’s audial.

“If you run, I _will_ find you. And if you fight, I’ll overpower you every time. There’s no escape for you, because I will _always_ _hunt you down Ostaros._ Do. you. understand?” He punctuated each word with a thrust of his fingers, and Springer’s valve clenched, trying to drag them deeper where they could reach the untouched nodes _begging_ for attention.

“But perhaps you’d like that, hm? For me to _hunt_ you—catch and claim you like I am now,” Tarantulas postulated cruelly. He yanked the fingers out of Springer’s valve and pushed

“Go on then. _Run_ ,” he hissed.

Springer almost shook his helm in denial. He knew it was useless—that the attempt would only humiliate him further—but Tarantulas’ glare implied that staying still would be even _worse._ He scrambled out from under the spider, and crawled to his pedes as quickly as his shaky joints would allow. He then stumbled back the way he had come. Predictably, he didn’t even make it two meters before his pedes were swept out from underneath him and he was dragged to the ground again.

The claws were shoved unceremoniously back into his valve, and the painful ecstasy that the rough treatment sent crawling across his frame was the most humiliating of all. He overloaded again, fingers clawing at the ground.

Springer’s valve throbbed relentlessly, and he sobbed against the cold floor. Any hope he had been clinging to had vanished with the first overload, and each successive one tore a new, ragged hole in his spark. If Tarantulas was trying to punish him for his disobedience than he'd succeeded. Escape was the last thing on Springer’s processor now.

“Beg me,” Tarantulas said softly. “Beg me for your next overload Ostaros, or I’ll keep you here all day, aching and unfulfilled.”

Tarantulas didn’t make idle threats. He meant it.

Springer was _tired._ Giving in was so much easier- especially when it felt this strut-meltingly, _excruciatingly_ good. This wasn’t a fight he could win. He’d lost ages ago. He'd tipped over an edge somewhere without realizing; somehow reached a point where being roughly finger-fragged by Tarantulas on the hard floor of a dirty cave was the best thing he’d ever experienced. Tarantulas dangled the sweet promise of relief just within his grasp, if only he’d concede.

Springer broke.

“Please,” he whispered, turning his head away so he didn’t have to see the expression that accompanied the satisfied bloom of Tarantulas’ field. Quick as lightning, Tarantulas grabbed his chin and forced his optics back. Springer knew the picture he made, mouth slack, and optics dazed and flickering. 

“No, you’ll _look_ at me, Ostaros,” Tarantulas admonished. “Now, what was that? You’re going to have to speak up.” His fingers slid a little deeper, found a new, untouched node to curl against, and Springer twisted into the touch. Mortification warred with desire, and desire won out.

“ _Please,”_ he keened. “I said _please_ alright? Primus just... _harder._ ”   

Tarantulas’ visor gleamed.

“Well, that’s certainly a start,” he murmured. “Now, beg me for my forgiveness, because frankly I’m not sure you deserve it.” He thumbed steadily at Springer’s node, and in that moment Springer would have said anything.

“I’m sorry,” he panted. “I’m _sorry-_ I won’t do it again I promise, I _promise._ ”

Tarantulas lightened his touch, and Springer whined at the loss.

“I _mean_ it, I swear, I’ll be good. I _will,_ ” he insisted. _Have mercy._

Tarantulas gazed steadily at him, as though he could peer into Springer’s very spark. He must have judged him repentant, because the pressure returned, and with one more motion Springer’s charge peaked. The overload ignited every one of his circuits as it jolted along his frame, and his spark burned so hot that it teetered on the edge of pain.

Springer slumped to the ground as Tarantulas withdrew his fingers—sticky with the evidence of his shame. His valve was aching and tender, and he turned his helm away to gaze listlessly at the wall.

But Tarantulas didn't _stop._ his fingers were back at Springer's node, pressing firm circles into the oversensitized little nub. Springer squirmed. He tried to pull away.

“Stay still,” said Tarantulas sharply. “I’m not done with you yet. I don't think you’ve learned your lesson, not in the slightest.”

It was too much; it _hurt._ Springer’s hips jerked away involuntarily, trying to escape the source of the stimulation. He met Tarantulas’ gaze for a nano-click and saw the _hunger_ there, and he knew that the spider would take and take until Springer had nothing left to give, but he didn’t _care_ anymore. Primus, he just wanted—he wanted—

A shuddering gasp marked the moment extreme sensitivity turned to strut-melting pleasure. He’s crested the peak in a split second, and now his hips were jerking into the spider’s fingers. Had _anything_ ever felt this good?  He was still sensitive—he was _so_ sensitive—but every throb of his node was as a small overload tearing through his system, and he gasped and hiccuped through the entire thing.

Then, Tarantulas was hauling him up and forward so that the blissfully hard metal of his knee joint ground against Springer’s valve, and he cried out hoarsely. His thighs tried to press together—to hold the pressure there and prolong the overload tearing through his systems—and Tarantulas took pity on him, leaning into it until he was a limp and sated puddle on the floor, twitching weakly.

“You’re mine, Ostaros. _Never_ forget that,” Tarantulas said.

Springer felt nothing. Frame overtaxed by the multiple overloads, and with systems quickly shutting down, he was resigned.

“I’m yours,” he agreed weakly. Genuinely?

Tarantulas was connecting them via hardline now, and Springer didn’t even have the energy to groan at the stretch. He didn’t fight as Tarantulas tore through his firewalls like wet paper. As he faded, he felt the scientist rummaging around in his processors—paying special attention to his emotional center. He didn’t protest as Tarantulas entrenched himself in deep-set code, and began tweaking. Messing with someone's code required some knowledge of mnemosurgery, or the kind of access that he didn’t remember granting… but—

Tarantulas sent a reassuring pulse across the connection, caressing Springer’s face absently as he worked, and as he basked in the approval he could almost ignore the foreign presence sifting through his reward pathways.

 _Imagine if my team could see me now,_ he thought—old bitterness nearly surfacing—but then the thought faded away to be replaced by confusion. _Why would I care about that?_

Tarantulas continued projecting a steady stream of comfort, and Springer’s optics flickered off. Another gentle pulse, and Springer allowed himself to fall offline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: it could be a while before the next update. I don't have much written for the next chapter, and I've got rapidly approaching deadlines for three term papers that I haven't even started D;
> 
> Don't worry though, once school settles down a little I'll get back to this. I'd say we've got.. 5 chapters to go? Including the epilogue. Some of my friends on the tfdiscord *glares pointedly* have been giving me ideas for bonus chapters and so smutty little tidbits set in this verse may pop up after the fic is finished. Who knows?
> 
> Thanks again for all the kudos and comments!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Springer's a good boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently when I said "don't expect the next chapter to be this long", I meant "expect it to be longer". Christ. See, _someone _on the discord got me excited about something that we'll be keeping secret for a little while longer, and it... fueled my writing.__

Springer was woken by the crackling surge across his sensornet. It rolled languidly across his frame, igniting every sensor along the way, and crawling into the gaps between his armor until every inch of his plating quivered with built-up charge. The wave crested abruptly, and with a shuddering gasp his systems onlined, only to be overtaken by the suddenness of the overload. His calipers cycled down, hungry- trying to drag a nonexistent spike deeper and satisfy the buzzing nodes nestled deep within.

His _spike_ though. _That_ was enveloped in delicious wet heat, a constricting heat that rippled around him, and encouraged every ecstatic pulse of transfluid. Springer pressed into the - _soft mesh?_ below him with a choked moan, and onlined his optics.

The image that greeted him was almost enough to make his spark give out. Tarantulas looked up through a dimmed visor, from above mandibles currently parted in order to welcome Springer’s spike into the gaping maw beneath. Tarantulas’ mouth wasn’t standard by _any_ means. Behind that organic mask there was nothing but the abyss that currently swallowed Springer whole. Simultaneously unnerving and erotic, the sight of his spike disappearing into the objectively horrifying orifice sent one last pitiful spasm through Springer’s frame. The subtle threat of the mandibles, which gripped his spike tighter as he jerked, only sent a thrill up his spinal strut, and when Tarantulas drew off with a low hum he whimpered.

The overload had left him dazed, but Springer still tried to make sense of his surroundings. The last he remembered, he’d been fading out on the cold, hard ground. Now there was soft mesh rubbing at his plating- a comfort he hadn’t felt in what seemed like lifetimes. He was in... a berth.

 _Tarantulas’_ berth, he hazarded.

His servos were tied behind his back by silky cords, and his pedes were equally bound, leaving little room for movement. It wasn’t as constrictive as the bindings he’d been left to hang in for all that time, but the material was just as strong, and he guessed that they were also made from Tarantulas’ webbing.

“Comfortable?” asked the spider. The slightly hoarse timbre of his voice sent another jolt of pleasure through Springer’s frame, and his fingers curled under him. _Tarantulas had really- Primus._

“Yes,” he panted. The arousal had abated somewhat, but it was nowhere near satisfied. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Tarantulas had injected him with venom again, but there were none of the telltale signs; none of the effects he’d gotten used to.

Springer’s mind was clear, and yet he still _wanted._

Distantly, he acknowledged that something felt...different within his processors. Something was just _slightly_ off. He remembered feeling humiliated by Tarantulas’ earlier treatment; recalled the shame-laced moment he had admitted defeat, but he couldn't for the life of him understand _why_ that had been such a horrible thing _._ Right now, lying in this berth with Tarantulas kneeling between his thighs, he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. Why had _escape_ ever been on his processors in the first place?

There was a disconnect between the Springer of the caves, and the Springer who had woken up blissfully to find himself in Tarantulas’ berth. He could _acknowledge_ those old feelings, but not comprehend them, because he had no desire to fight. Cooperation was what would earn him Tarantulas’ goodwill, and he basked in the possibility of the spider’s affection and approval washing over him.

“Good,” purred Tarantulas. “I hope you appreciate the change in venue. I think we’re beyond the use of the _crude_ methods I had to resort to initially. We’ve made such progress, and well, you’re not going to misbehave again, are you?” he asked.

Springer shook his head weakly. He didn’t know what had possessed him in the first place, to want to leave this. Living like this- at the center of Tarantulas’ attentions, and treated like a treasured possession- it sounded like _heaven_ . Even if he had _wanted_ to escape, like his past self apparently had, it would just risk punishment, and the thought of displeasing Tarantulas was almost physically painful. 

Tarantulas reached out to stroke his thigh plating reverently

“I’m _so_ glad. I didn’t think we’d have any.. issues, but I needed to hear it from you," he said. “I’m putting my _faith_ in you here, Ostaros. Don’t make me regret it."

The knowledge that Tarantulas trusted him sent another ripple of affection through Springer’s field, and the spider’s own field flared approvingly. He tilted his head to regard Springer where he lay exposed.

“I don’t allow just anyone into my berth, you know. Mechs have to _earn_ that pleasure,” Tarantulas informed him. The servo on his thigh moved closer to where Springer wanted it, and he craned into the touch, hoping that Tarantulas would be generous.

“Would you like to earn it?”

To Springer’s dismay, the touch moved past his spike to settle on the thinner plating of his midsection, but he arched into the touch regardless, seeking more pressure.

“Yes,” he groaned, “I’ll do whatever you want… _please._ ” His sensornet tingled. The way he responded so eagerly to Tarantulas’ requests still nagged at him, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care about it. That faint, disconcerting voice had already faded since its first appearance; nothing like the furious struggle with the venom. At this rate it would be gone in no time. His processors insisted that Tarantulas’ control felt _right,_ and he sunk into that heady feeling _._

Tarantulas lacked the necessary equipment to smile, but even so, his glee was obvious. “ _Excellent._ Now, Ostaros, all I’m going to need from you- is a little obedience.” He directed a contemplative look at Springer’s prone form. “Can you do that for me?”

_Yes._

Springer opened his mouth to answer, but when he tried to speak all that emerged was rough static. He cleared his vocalizer, embarrassed, but Tarantulas appeared pleased. Springer turned pleading optics on him instead, trying to convey the depth of his conviction, and Tarantulas was satisfied if the low hiss was any indication.

“Now pet, I was obviously.. _lax_ in your discipline before. But we’re going to work on that- together, because I _know_ that you can do better,” said Tarantulas.

He leaned in and helped Springer to his knees; spread his thighs as far apart as the bindings would allow. Then, he pulled a box from his subspace and set it on the berth where Springer could watch with rapt attention. His spike had already recovered, and the transfluid had begun to bead at the tip. When Tarantulas popped the latch and opened the lid, Springer’s optics flared. His valve clenched in anticipation, and his spike conveyed its agreement with another bubble of transfluid.

The box contained an assortment of toys. Toys which could no doubt keep him and Tarantulas entertained for _hours_ if the spider wanted. The fact that Tarantulas had likely used those toys on _himself_ was what almost tripped Springer’s circuits then and there. A painfully erotic image came to mind- Tarantulas on his knees, riding one of the bigger false spikes to completion. He’d throw his head back, moan long and low as the toy ground against aching nodes. His claws would dig furrows in the berth, and his visor would flare bright as he tipped over that blissful edge. Springer knew _exactly_ what that valve felt like clenching in overload, and it wasn’t a stretch to imagine it now.

The spider examined the collection with a critical optic, and Springer’s plating almost vibrated as he waited for Tarantulas to make a decision.

Finally, he reached in and pulled out a short false spike. What it lacked in length it made up for in thickness, and if Springer was a little disappointed that Tarantulas hadn’t chosen one of the more unusual options then he wasn't going to show it. He would take _whatever_ Tarantulas wanted to give him. And while the plug had little in the way of texture, the implications of the switch on the bottom made Springer’s field thrum.

Tarantulas reached out to tap the side of Springer’s spike, and he started from his reverie with a small twitch of his hips.

“Focus,” Tarantulas chided, “and put this away.”

Springer cycled his optics, momentarily caught off guard. Trying to recess his spike at this point would be fairly painful. Honestly, he didn’t even know if it were possible.

But apparently hesitation was unacceptable, because the next instant there was a painful grip on his spike, and Springer yelped involuntarily at the pain. Tarantulas’ visor narrowed.

“I _thought_ you promised to behave. I told you not to make me regret giving you this opportunity Ostaros. Put it away, and leave your cover open,” he ordered, no room for argument.

 _Oh._ Springer’s fans were suddenly roaring, and he fought his frame’s compulsions to grind into the new rush of arousal. Spike sheaths were almost painfully sensitive, and to have _that_ kind of fun you needed a partner you trusted enough not to damage the sensitive internals. He’d slipped a few fingers in there once or twice, and it’d led to some of the strangest, but most intense overloads of his functioning. That being said, he’d never..

With a small wince, Springer manually retracted his spike so that it recessed into its housing. He groaned with the effort, frame rebelling against what it saw as a counterproductive action.

“Good boy,” Tarantulas purred, and the praise made Springer’s spark sing. While he’d been distracted, Tarantulas had coated the toy with lubricant. Spike sheaths didn’t produce nearly as much lubricant as a valve did when aroused, and Springer fixated on the glistening head of the toy. He could already feel the slick stretch. He fluffed his plating, and a few small wisps of steam escaped.

Tarantulas made eye contact as he lined the head up with Springer’s sheath, obviously intent on seeing every change in his expression as he pressed in... _slowly_ . Springer couldn’t help the broken moan that escaped his lips as the toy pushed against nodes that weren’t really meant to be stimulated this way, nodes which had no prior experience with this kind of pleasurable assault.

The plug stretched the relatively inflexible walls of his sheath to their very limit, and Springer’s frame was telling him that the intrusion was weird and _wrong_ ; that his spike should be pushing _outwards_ instead, but the brief sensory confusion couldn’t take away from the ecstasy shooting up his array. He licked his lips, and met Tarantulas’ gaze as best he could, though his optics had begun to go dim and unfocused.

It was slow going, but Tarantulas was patient, pausing to allow Springer to adjust to the stretch until finally- _finally_ the blunt head of the toy settled directly against the tip of his recessed spike. The contact sent currents of sharp pleasure through his trapped spike, and upwards into his throbbing valve. His hips shifted restlessly, trying to lessen the intensity, but Tarantulas only pressed a little harder to compensate, and Springer whined lowly.

“You wriggle so _beautifully_ ,” Tarantulas said with a small sigh, pushing harder until Springer twitched and whimpered to his liking.

Springer was on the verge of an overload; the press of the illicit little toy against his straining spike was _so good_ and he didn’t even care that it would make a mess inside of him. If anything, it only made him hotter. When Tarantulas flipped the switch on the base of the toy, the ensuing vibrations were too much to bear, and he _keened_ as his vision whited-out.

When the overload had run its course, and Springer was left panting and twisting away from the stimulation, Tarantulas deigned to lower the setting to something more manageable. Still, Springer let out small hiccupping gasps as he tried to contend with intensity of the sensation against his protesting spike, and the way the wet slide of transfluid intensified it.

“I know, darling. I know,” said Tarantulas soothingly, “but you’re doing _so well._ ”

He turned to rummage within the box again, and moments later he was pulling out another toy. _This_ was what Springer had expected earlier; a large false spike with small circular knobs lining its surface- meant to massage each of his internal nodes as it passed over them. The tip was pronged, and Springer could already feel the ghost of it on his ceiling node. His hips were still twitching desperately, and Tarantulas wasted no time.

The spike split Springer apart easily. The lubricant had been running down his legs for some time, and his valve eagerly took what was offered. The texture of the small bumps against his mesh walls was maddening; they rolled over nodes firmly and set his sensornet aflame. As always, the feel of something filling his frustratingly sensitive valve had him close within seconds, but he chased the feeling. When the pronged end settled against his ceiling node Springer tried to grind into it, but Tarantulas pulled away enough to deny him.

“Don’t get greedy now,” Tarantulas chided. He pushed back in, and Springer clenched desperately around the blissfully hard intrusion. The angle of the toys meant that his recessed spike was getting stimulated from _both_ ends, and his frame was wracked by shudders as he teetered on the precipice of another processor-shattering overload.

“Close your panels,” commanded Tarantulas, as he surveyed his work with a keen optic.

With a shaky gasp, Springer complied. _Primus,_ he’d never felt this full before in his life. His thighs trembled as he remembered that he had _earned_ this bliss, that he was only feeling this because Tarantulas _wanted_ him to.  

“Mmm does that feel good?” asked Tarantulas slyly. The answer was clear in the helpless gratitude that Springer broadcasted through his field, but Tarantulas clearly wanted him to speak, and Springer was eager to please.

“ _Yes_ ,” he gasped, curling inwards as the toy in his sheath shifted, and focused the vibrations on a different cluster of nodes. “It’s  _so good._  Oh- _frag. Tarantulas,”_ he groaned desperately. The lubricant had begun to seep from behind the seams on his valve cover, and it trickled down his thigh. Tarantulas tracked the trail hungrily, before turning to his subspace again with renewed purpose.

He emerged with a much smaller box, one which when opened, revealed energon candies. _Praxian crystals_. Springer hadn’t had one since a shore leave years and years ago, back when they were hard to find, but not impossible.  

 _The fact that he’s even managed to get ahold of some…_ Springer swallowed hard.

“These used to be Prowl’s favorites,” Tarantulas commented offhand, and Springer felt a twinge of jealousy at the lingering fondness present in his voice as he talked about the mech who’d betrayed him not once, but _twice_. “I grew to favor them myself after a while. It’s hard to get genuine crystals since the war, but luckily for you I have both a recipe, and the means to make them myself.”

Tarantulas used a claw to delicately pluck one of the crystals from its container, and he presented it to Springer. Springer leaned forward, but stilled with a gasp as the movement shifted the spikes inside him. Tarantulas didn’t move to meet him, so he steeled himself, and with a small whimper bridged the gap. He licked at the claw as he took the crystal, and Tarantulas hummed approvingly, chasing his mouth as he drew away in order to slide the claw deeper.

Springer urgently rocked his hips as he suckled; doing his best to lick the last traces of the sweet from the offered finger. He used his tongue ad if he were sucking spike, and Tarantulas’ amused gaze implied that he knew _exactly_ what Springer was doing. Oh, the taste of the candy was _divine_ after being kept so long on bland, standard fuel. It melted in his mouth, and the sweetness was almost intoxicating.

When Tarantulas drew away he made a sound of protest, but it was only to take another candy from the box, and once again as it was pressed to his lips Springer welcomed the claw that followed. This time, the box was placed on the berth in front of him, so that Tarantulas’ other servo could reach out to _knead_ at Springer’s spike panel.

He overloaded with a short cry, and Tarantulas gently passed another candy through his parted lips. Sweetness bloomed on his tongue as he was swept into blissful aftershocks, sustained by the low buzzing of the toy.

“That’s it,” Tarantulas murmured encouragingly. “See how easy it can be? How wonderful? You just need to trust me to take care of you, pet. There’s no room for your old life here, and no need for pretense. I know the heavy burdens you’ve had to bear, the guilt you’ve lived with, and it pains me to know that you went through so much while we were separated. But here- here you have _no_ such responsibilities. Here, you just need to _let go,_ Ostaros.”

Springer moaned in agreement. He was willing to accept everything that Tarantulas had to offer, as long as it came with his devotion. A pet, a lover, a frequent visitor to Tarantulas’ berth- all things that his processor greatly approved of, even insisted he accept.

Tarantulas leaned in, and slid back Springer’s valve cover manually.

“I can give you _everything_ . This and so much more. If you’ll only consent to be _mine_ , _”_ the spider urged.

 _Oh._ Springer’s spark leaped. How could he ever refuse an offer like _that?_ A firm touch to his anterior node was all it took for him to shatter.

“I’m yours,” he keened. “I’m yours. I don’t want anything else, _please Tarantulas-_ ”

Tarantulas practically purred, watching the way Springer writhed with intense satisfaction. “Overload for me,” he commanded softly.

And he did. Springer peaked so hard that for a second he thought he might never descend, and when his frame was consumed by a surge so powerful that his ports sparked beneath his armor, he was knocked offline.

When he came to, Tarantulas had removed the false spike from his valve and cleaned him up. He ached, but it was the good kind of ache that only appeared after a reallygood frag. The plug was still lodged in his sheath, but thankfully the vibrations had stopped. Tarantulas helped him up once again from where he had collapsed on the berth, and offered him another crystal. The treat was almost as heavenly as the way Tarantulas caressed his face before he pulled away.

“Open up,” Tarantulas said, thumbing at Springer’s spike panel, and Springer moaned quietly when the toy was drawn out across sensitive mesh. Despite his many overloads, his spike still wanted to emerge, coding confused by the internal stimulation. Springer weakly allowed it to extend, as Tarantulas cooed an encouragement.

The air on his now hypersensitive plating was almost enough to tip him over again. He was _so close,_ and it _hurt,_ but Tarantulas took him in hand anyway, and Springer hissed at the intensity.  Tarantulas removed a few more crystals from the container, and brought them to Springer’s burning plating, where they began to melt almost immediately. He absently smeared the substance across the top of Springer’s spike.

“I think it’s time for my treat now,” mused Tarantulas, and his mandibles parted to reveal the chasm beneath. Springer had been half-asleep the first time he’d gotten to see Tarantulas settled between his legs, but he was _definitely_ online now.

He watched enraptured as Tarantulas lowered himself to engulf his spike with great relish. It was too much, and Springer jerked away, but the tight grip on his hips steadied him. Springer was overcome by the urge to place his servos on the spider’s helm and guide his movements, but even if that wild dream had been a possibility, his servos were still bound.

 _This is the kinkiest blowjob of my entire life,_ thought Springer faintly.

Tarantulas took great enjoyment in his task, and even though the lack of lips made for poor suction, his tongue- something Springer hadn’t noticed before- curled against the bottom and rubbed insistently. The length of it was hinted at as it _wrapped_ around to sample the melted treat, and the drag as Tarantulas pulled off only to engulf the throbbing metal again, was enough to send Springer over the edge. He sobbed; overcome by pleasure that edged on pain, but welcoming every second of it.

Tarantulas pulled off carefully, doing his best not to turn that feeling to agony. He took out a cloth from his subspace, and gently cleaned Springer off, running the soft fibers across his plating in soothing circles. When Tarantulas was done, he reached behind Springer, and sliced the webbing which held his hands together. Springer massaged his wrists as Tarantulas did the same to his feet, and he stretched hesitantly to relieve the tension that had built up.

Tarantulas looked on in clear admiration of what it did to the contours of Springer’s frame.

“..I want us to be more than this Ostaros,” he admitted. “Your place is by my side, and I want to trust you _very_ badly. I want you to come to me of your own volition; seek out my company because you enjoy it. I’ve got plans for you in the years to come, and they shouldn't be spent locked up like some mechanimal". 

“Does that mean,” began Springer hoarsely, “that I’m not going back to that room?”

Tarantulas shook his head slowly.

“In a way, your little stunt may have been the best thing to happen to us. It allowed me to make some.. _necessary adjustments_ , and well, here we are,” he said. Tarantulas reached into his subspace one more time, and pulled out- _Oh._

It was simple; a thin band of green and black to match Springer’s plating, with delicate black lace edging, and a glossy black bow in the center. It was beautiful. It was also a collar.

“I think now that we have more of an _understanding,_ I can be generous,” Tarantulas informed him. “I’ll allow you to roam. I’ll give you your own room, and you can entertain yourself however you see fit. If you need something, ask me and I’ll do my very best to provide it.”

He shifted the collar, and it made a small tinkling sound. Springer zeroed in on a small silver bell hanging beneath the bow, and almost managed to muster up some indignity, but he supposed Tarantulas had his reasons for wanting to ensure Springer couldn't sneak up on him. Not that he _would_.

Tarantulas showed him the inside of the collar, which was lined with wire mesh.  

“This will keep you from straying out of bounds,” said Tarantulas. "It’ll warn you when you’re getting close. Go any farther, and you’re in for a nasty shock, so it’s in your best interests to stay within the limits".

Springer looked at Tarantulas for a long moment, gauging the extent of his lenience.  

“Can I-” he began hesitantly. “Can I go outside? I’ve been cooped up indoors for so long, and I don’t know how much more I can take,” he admitted. 

Tarantulas gazed at him consideringly.

“No, I think you’ll need to earn that privilege. But don’t fret Ostaros. It _will_ happen soon. I promise,” he assured him.

Springer felt a sharp pang of disappointment; he really _was_ starting to feel the effects of being confined to such a small area, but he could only hope that with some good behavior Tarantulas would reconsider. Springer didn’t want to _leave_ , but he did want to see the stars.

Tarantulas was looking at him expectantly, and Springer leaned forward, tilting his neck back for better access. The collar clicked into place perfectly; no room for it to shift and rub, but not constrictive either. He wasn’t surprised. His fans clicked on to a low setting as his processor registered the claim that had just been made. Indignity and all, he _loved_ it.

Tarantulas seemed a little dazed himself; his optics lingered on Springer’s collared throat as though it were the most captivating thing he'd ever seen.

“Come here,” he ordered, though it almost sounded like a beg of his own. Springer shuffled forward and allowed Tarantulas to gather him up in his many limbs. He rearranged them so that they were situated comfortably, back against chest, and nuzzled then at the side of Springer's helm. The deep rumbling of his engine was comforting, doubly so when Tarantulas began to hum contently. This time, it morphed into a song; a lullaby. There wasn’t much time for lullabies in war, and hardly any sparklings around to sing them too, but Springer felt as though he'd heard this one before, in a dream, or some distant memory.

Springer’s sparked ached. He pressed into the comforting warmth behind him, let those many limbs curl around and cage him in. He shivered.

“Why?” Springer finally ventured hoarsely. He didn’t elaborate, but Tarantulas seemed to understand.

The spider shifted, stroking between Springer’s seams in a comforting manner.

“I _made_ you, Ostaros. I would tear the world apart looking for you, and I would _gut_ anyone who tried to take you away. I already lost you once. I _won’t_ let it happen again,” he explained softly, but intently.

Earlier, Springer might have considered that a threat. Now, he melted. Tarantulas shifted them farther back into the berth. He used some of his extra limbs to pull mesh blankets around them, forming a makeshift nest.

“As for the rest of it, well. All in good time, dear spark. All in good time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the effects of Tarantulas digging around in Springer's head were clear enough! He pretty much just rummaged around and removed/changed all the pathways which associated him with bad feelings (fear/anger, etc). Tl;dr Springer's always gonna be pleased to see him.
> 
> I'm making no promises about the next chapter, because while I do have work to do, I'm also easily excitable and surrounded by _bad influences _. Just don't.. expect anything and we'll go from there.__  
>  __  
> Also! Here's the insp for Springer's collar, provided by the ever so helpful DinobotGlitch after much debate ;3  
>  http://data.whicdn.com/images/120329488/large.png  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Springer's settling into his new life pretty well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got worldbuilding! A little anyway.

Springer was... happy. Honestly, it’d been a long time since he’d felt this content. Doted on by Tarantulas, and released from the crushing weight of his responsibilities, he was finally able to cut loose and _relax_ \- enjoy what his life had to offer him.

He was also the kind of mech that got bored easily.

It’d taken him a while to regain his former strength and agility. Being bound in the webbing for so long had offset the equilibrium in his joints, and weeks later Springer was _still_ working kinks out of his wires. But ever since he’d been given free reign of the sprawling caverns, he’d been itching to _do something._ As a Wrecker, Springer was used to a certain level of activity, and so once he'd recovered- and shaken the metaphorical rust from his gears- nothing could have stopped him from scoping out his options.

That didn’t mean that Tarantulas always _approved_ of his choices. Access to guns was obviously a no-go, and Springer hadn’t even bothered asking about whether a makeshift shooting range was a possibility at this stage- he’d known what the answer would be. Still, he’d needed to curb his restlessness somehow, and since Tarantulas hadn’t been letting him outside at that point.. well, he’d gotten creative.

Even so, Springer didn’t think Tarantulas had anticipated him _literally_ bouncing off the walls.

He laughed softly as he remembered the look on Tarantulas’ face when he’d realized what Springer had been up to in his spare time. The undeveloped chambers of the cave system ranged in size, and Springer had discovered that some of the larger ones - filled with stalactites and other rock features- made for a fun obstacle course. He’d been having a blast figuring out how to scale and vault across them at increasing speeds. After all, when was the last time he’d used his legs for _fun,_ instead of just as an asset in battle?

He’d been using the larger tunnels too, when he wanted a tighter course. There it was more of a challenge to stay off the ground, and it was also how Tarantulas had found out about his _extracurricular_ _activities,_ as the momentum he’d gained had made it hard to stop _._ Sprawled on the floor, with a mildly repentant Springer on top of him, Tarantulas’ irritation had only passed when he proceeded to plant kisses all over the twitching mandibles. While the immediate anger had dissipated quickly, it hadn’t stopped the spider from grumbling petulantly about how he ought to spank Springer for his misbehavior.

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards at the memory.

_Worth it._

Tarantulas still tried to discourage the practice- with protests about how much he worried, and  _insisting_ that Springer would hurt himself- but really it was a half-hearted effort. He knew that Springer needed to burn off his excess energy somehow, and the one time he’d tried flying laps through the caverns had been even worse (he’d needed some medical attention after that one, and Tarantulas _hadn’t_ been happy). As a result, Tarantulas had been forced into a kind of grudging acceptance.

It didn't stop him from freaking out whenever he saw Springer perched somewhere particularly precarious though, and Springer liked to tease- calling out and telling Tarantulas to watch _this_ as he flung himself through a race of his own making, all the while laughing at the seething spider below.

He had a lot more leeway these days, probably because Tarantulas knew he had zero desire to leave.  

Springer _did_ have other things to keep him occupied. He’d been reading a lot, for a start. He’d always been interested in history, and now he had the time to catch up on the millions of works he’d never gotten around to. Tarantulas had gotten him a datapad which allowed him to access a jaw-dropping number of files, and though he’d started with Cybertronian history, lately he’d been branching out.

Springer was _particularly_ interested in the planet they were on, but Tarantulas was still withholding their exact location, and left most of his questions unanswered. He’d been outside a few times, accompanied by the spider and with t-cog locked down, but he’d seen enough to appreciate its beauty.

The planet was techno-organic like Tarantulas himself- a fitting place to build a home, considering that all of Tarantulas’ hints implied they'd be staying here indefinitely. From what little information he _had_ gleaned, Springer understood that there wasn’t any native sentient life beyond the mechanimals, so there’d be little competition. He assumed it was either at the far edges of a galaxy, or hidden in some way- considering the lack of colonization by other species. It'd probably taken Tarantulas forever to find.

Tarantulas assured him that one day, maybe even soon, Springer would be able to help. Not with Tarantulas’ projects necessarily, since science wasn’t his forte, but with constructing a life for them here. The caves were only minimally developed, probably by Tarantulas himself when he had the time, but eventually they'd need to be transformed into a more permanent living space.

At the rate which Tarantulas had begun granting him liberties, Springer was sure that he’d be allowed to talk to some of Tarantulas’ contacts about supplies soon enough, and even oversee the process himself.

He _wanted_ to help. It'd give him something to do; something worth his time and energy, and Springer would be happy knowing he was both contributing to their future and pleasing Tarantulas, but the spider seemed like he was waiting for something. All of his hints indicated that he was planning something; something vital to his ability to trust Springer fully. Whatever it was, it seemed important, and Springer hoped that Tarantulas would approach him with it soon.

For now, he could wait.

One of his _favorite_ things to do was interrupt Tarantulas in his lab, in order to monopolize his attention. The scientist accepted his presence with begrudging fondness, and Springer had gotten _very_ good at tempting him away from his current projects. A careful brush of armor, a few insinuations, and a sly curve of his lips was normally all it took to get Tarantulas distracted. He’d stroke absently at his fur and make idle conversation, while Tarantulas’ charge built slowly in the background, and usually he barely had to turn away before the spider was pouncing on him.

It wasn’t always to interface though. Sometimes Springer just wanted to drag the scientist away from whatever project had him in its clutches; he’d rope him into a strategy game when he got tired of playing against the AI, or simply pull him into the couch where they could cuddle up in front of a holovid.

That’s where they were today, though the holovid was more background than anything else. They were settled on the mesh couch in one of the half-developed rooms, where Tarantulas had set up a vidscreen. Tarantulas was preoccupied with - for lack of a better term - grooming Springer absently.

At the moment, he was using his claws to pick out the gravel which had wedged itself beneath Springer’s plating, and he sighed in relief as another small chunk was dislodged from his shoulder joint. They weren't going to cause any long term damage, but all the running around he’d been doing meant that rocks sometimes got caught in _extremely_ unpleasant places.

When he was finished, Tarantulas pulled out a soft brush, and began to gently work at the fine dust which had settled over and inside of his armor. Springer moaned quietly in appreciation as the bristles scratched softly, and he wriggled closer. He tilted his head back against Tarantulas’ chest, and shuttered his optics, fully intent on savoring the charge which built languidly with each stroke.

“You should let me return the favor later,” Springer suggested drowsily, and Tarantulas’ engine rumbled beneath his chest in agreement. Springer's servo had been resting on Tarantulas’ thigh, and now he carded his fingers through the soft fur affectionately. Oh yeah. Using the brush on Tarantulas was  _definitely_ appealing. 

After a time, Tarantulas switched out the brush for a slightly damp cloth, which he ran over Springer’s armor to remove the last traces of grit. The press of the cool fabric against his plating was a welcome relief, now that the low buzz of arousal had begun to warm his frame.

Their little ritual took a while, and Springer could have accomplished the same thing by walking into the washrack Tarantulas had set up, but that wouldn’t have been nearly as intimate, and he'd take the option that got Tarantulas’ servos on him any day.

When Tarantulas was satisfied with his work, and had subspaced the cloth, Springer made sure to stretch slowly- showing off all of the shiny plating within the spider’s reach. Before Tarantulas could act on the temptation though, Springer shifted, and turned around in his arms to kneel between inviting thighs. Tarantulas had been lounging against the back of the couch, and Springer had him well and truly trapped.

_Perfect._

Tarantulas watched intently as Springer leaned forward, and vented a hot breath over his mandibles. His visor dimmed a little, and Springer took the opportunity to wrap his lips as best he could around one of the mandibles and begin suckling softly. Tarantulas let out a soft ‘hah’, and the ribbed surface parted, giving Springer more room to work. He laved the mandible with his tongue and it trembled, which he took as a sign to envelop the tip with his mouth and suck. This time, the shudder traveled through Tarantulas’ entire frame, and Springer was graced with another unsteady vent.

They couldn't really kiss, but this was the next best thing.

One of Springer’s servos reached up to caress the other side of Tarantulas’ face, rubbing lovingly against the neglected mandibles, as his glossa continued to tease the one at its mercy. His other servo dropped down to Tarantulas’ panel, where he kneaded the rapidly warming metal.

Tarantulas’ valve cover slid back without hesitation, but as tempting as it was, that wasn’t what Springer wanted. Tarantulas had yet to spike him, and while he didn’t know _why_ the spider had been holding off, he was going to do his best to change his mind. Because honestly, at this point Springer _ached_ for it.

“Other one?” Springer breathed against the mandible he was fondling with his glossa, emphasizing his request with a light flick. Tarantulas’ composure wilted entirely, and he conceded with a small moan, allowing his spike cover to snap open. A thrill shot through Springer; presented with the knowledge that he might  _finally_ know what Tarantulas felt like inside of him. 

He drew back excitedly to take a look, but where he had expected to find a spike there was not one, but two openings. The larger one on the bottom was definitely a spike sheath- Tarantulas just hadn’t extended it yet- but it was the top one which drew Springer’s attention. It was only about a third of the size of the sheath, but then again mods weren’t uncommon, so it was possible that Tarantulas just had a smaller, second spike installed.

That being said, Springer’s curiosity wasn’t going to be sated by speculation.

“Careful,” Tarantulas warned breathlessly, as Springer pressed against the entrance with his thumb, testing the waters. Tarantulas tensed minutely at the initial breach, but the _noise_ he made when Springer slipped just inside was incredible, and Springer very nearly moaned himself. The passage rippled eagerly around his finger, and it was as warm and wet as a valve.

Liquid heat rushed through his own lines as Tarantulas arched against the couch. His claws dug into the cushions and left stark impressions; had the couch not been made of mesh it would have torn beneath the assault. Tarantulas was making a very clear effort to lock his hips in place as Springer pressed gently forward, but his vents sputtered with the effort, and a soft keen had started up at the back of his throat.

 _Sensitive,_ Springer observed absently. _Way more sensitive than even a spike sheath. What is it?_

Suddenly, there was something pressing against his thumb from within the channel. He didn't pull back, and it pulsed- hard and needy. Tarantulas choked on a gasp.

“Let it out, Ostaros,” he ordered weakly, but Springer could hear the plea behind it, and he relented. He withdrew from the fluttering passage, and watched, riveted, as something emerged and began to extend.

It wasn’t like any spike he’d ever seen. Tapered, and fairly thin, it flexed easily, and even pulsed again as he watched- clearly more techno-organic than pure Cybertronian. The interlocking segments became thicker as you traveled down, but the size of the base still wasn’t close to that of an average spike. Springer was at a complete loss.

“What is it?” he asked, but Tarantulas shook his head desperately. He was still quivering from Springer’s earlier efforts, and pride bloomed briefly in his chassis, as it always did at the sight of Tarantulas so flustered.

“Later,” managed Tarantulas. His voice shook with the effort. “Right now, you’re going to finish what you started.” The demand was delivered in a low rasp, as though Tarantulas truly were losing control over his vocalizer and was afraid to speak any louder for fear of it giving out.

Springer smirked at the order- honestly, as if it were a _chore-_ and reached out to catch the not-spike between his thumb and forefinger in order to rub at it firmly. It throbbed weakly in response, and almost seemed to curl into his touch, as though seeking something. Tarantulas groaned helplessly, optics fixed on the way Springer handled the delicate appendage. He tilted his hips eagerly into Springer’s servos.

Springer licked his lips.

Tarantulas watched his glossa dart out with an expression close to rapturous, and Springer didn’t give him any longer to think about the implications. He shuffled back, and then leaned down to wrap his lips around the slender appendage, allowing it to rest heavy on his glossa.

Slowly, he tried rubbing his tongue along the bottom of the tube, and Tarantulas spat static. Encouraged, Springer took more into his mouth; the metal segments were flexible, they slid easily into his throat, and even a little further down.

When he swallowed experimentally, Tarantulas jerked with a small whine. Vibrations were rattling his frame, and his engine was stuttering so violently that Springer would have been concerned, if not for the way his field _begged_ for more. He’d never seen Tarantulas so undone.

“Hah..you’re doing.. _so_ well, sweetspark,” he gasped, visor flickering erratically.  

Springer moaned at the praise, a new flood of desire rushing across his frame and leaving him weak. He began to suckle at the thing the best he could, throat closing and rippling around the oddly flexible metal. He savored each of the keens that escaped Tarantulas, each of the fervently murmured compliments. Tarantulas had to shift a servo behind him in order to keep from collapsing, and his claws clenched fitfully at the furniture.

Springer bathed in the ecstasy permeating the room- cast off from Tarantulas’ field as he began to lose control of it. _He_ was the cause of that, and he wanted so much more. Springer redoubled his efforts, glossa pressing the appendage to the roof of his mouth, and sucking rhythmically.

Springer didn't know how long he knelt like that, glossa and throat working in tandem to bring Tarantulas to such heights that he actually whimpered, but he relished every second of it. He still wondered what it was, what purpose it served, but he was so _very_ glad it existed.

Springer pulled back, and Tarantulas’ momentary dismay dissipated when he left the end into his mouth, and sent his glossa forth to probe at the opening. As Springer’s glossa pressed, softly but insistently, it spiraled open enough to permit the tip, and then Tarantulas was convulsing with a desperate cry of his name.

A small amount of fluid dribbled from the opening; nothing like a spike overload, but then again a spike overload had never produced _this_ kind of reaction. Springer pulled off slowly and sat up to look at Tarantulas. They stared at one another, venting raggedly with the weight of the charge swirling in the air.

Tarantulas looked ready to eat him alive.

“Spike me,” Springer begged hoarsely, and Tarantulas moved like lightning, dragging Springer forward to settle in his lap.

“ _Gladly_ ,” he hissed, all reservations forgotten- Oh Primus, Springer had obviously been _convincing._ Then Tarantulas’ spike was extending against his armor - _finally-_ and he ground against it.

“Was it good?” Springer asked only a little breathlessly; trying and failing to contain his smug expression. He knew the answer- the aftershocks were still sending small tremors through the spider’s thighs. He licked at the throat cables within his reach, and Tarantulas twitched.

“Naughty little thing,” was Tarantulas’ answer, his giddiness apparent. He reached behind Springer; pulled him closer, encouraged him to grind _harder._ “But oh so very sweet,” he added in a murmur, and Springer opened his panels without prompting, letting ridges catch his node on the next undulation.

He looked down, eager to see what he’d been missing, and his engine stalled. Tarantulas’ spike was... intimidating. Not in its size- Springer had already considered their proportions, and the stretch would likely be _delicious_ \- but in its appearance. A tapered head lead to a series of thick ridges just beneath, beyond which was a thicker middle section, peppered with slightly pointed nubs. Nothing that Springer hadn’t seen before.

What gave him pause, was the series of what looked like _spines_ where the base tapered off, clearly designed to snag, and grip. They sent a brief thrill up Springer’s spinal strut, but he couldn’t help but be a little concerned. Painful interface wasn’t on his list of kinks, and it seemed as if maybe Tarantulas had been sparing him some discomfort by waiting.

Still, he _wanted_ this.  

Springer’s valve was leaking all over their laps, the slick mess clear proof, and Tarantulas could no doubt feel the desire in his field; strong and turbulent despite his newfound reservation. It tried to latch onto the spider’s own field in amorous pursuit, and Tarantulas accepted its advances, enveloping it in his own.

“Are you ready, pet?” asked Tarantulas slyly, no doubt having read the hesitation on Springer's face. The patronizing tone rankled him, and if nothing else, well- he never backed down from a challenge.

“Just try me,” he growled, channeling all the insolence he could into the statement. Tarantulas just cackled with delight and lined them up, shifting Springer so that he rested directly over the eager head of his spike.

“You’re going to look so beautiful stuffed full,” he said lightly. “I’ve been thinking about it since the day I first had you mewling and overloading on my claws.”

Springer’s fans immediately ratcheted up three notches, as he remembered writhing on the floor of the tunnel. Primus, that wasn’t _fair._ But before he could respond Tarantulas was guiding him down, and all his complaints flew out the window at the initial parting of his valve.  

The head of the spike slid in with little resistance; he’d been lubricating excessively from the start. The ridges underneath pushed against raised nodes until Springer’s optics began to go glassy with pleasure, and he clenched around them, only heightening the friction as they pressed forward.

The middle section was slower going, and as he sunk down carefully he learned that he’d been right about the stretch- it _was_ good; so good that the noise he let out when the raised nubs rubbed against deeper sensors was a little embarrassing. Springer stopped halfway down the spike- at the broadest area, where the resistance became too much. His legs shook from the effort.

Already, he was dangerously close to overload. Tarantulas wasn’t unaffected either; his ragged vents fought Springer’s own roaring fans for dominance. And yet he retained enough of his composure to tease mercilessly.

“Too much?” the spider asked, mirth barely hidden behind a concerned mask.

“Is that all you got?” countered Springer weakly, though he knew that Tarantulas saw right through him. His circuits were tingling relentlessly, and a dizzying rush swept across him as his valve clenched involuntarily around the hot length splitting him apart.

“I just want you to be comfortable, Ostaros,” Tarantulas simpered, eyeing the way he sat on his spike with great relish. Suddenly, he gave a short thrust upwards, and the unexpected stimulation was enough to shatter Springer’s composure.

He overloaded with a sharp cry, and as the white-hot pleasure blazed a trail to his spark, his valve loosened enough to swallow the spike to the base. The additional stimulation had him grabbing onto Tarantulas’ chest for support, and he leaned into the spider as he rode out the waves rolling over him. His valve burned, but it was inconsequential as the ecstasy pulsed through his lines, and when the overload had subsided it just felt _good._  

“Cheater,” he accused tiredly, no vitriol behind it, and Tarantulas laughed; moving his hips again for good measure just to see Springer twitch.

“Well? Don’t tell me this is all a _Wrecker_ has to show for himself,” he rasped, and Springer groaned in contrition. The spike inside of him was even better than he could have imagined, every slight shift producing a volley of sensation that shot through his entire sensornet. The spines at the base tickled his valve rim, and now Springer could feel that they had more give to them than he’d initially assumed.

He took a steadying vent, and then ground down firmly, putting all of his weight in the movement until they pressed in behind the rest of the spike. The spines were stiff, but bent enough to allow passage, and the lines of heat they drew teetered just on the edge of painful. They prodded sharply at nodes, and caused new lubricant to well up abruptly where they raked across his mesh.

Tarantulas let out a satisfied moan, and pulled Springer closer once more. The bizarrely painful-pleasurable drag of the spines was almost enough to send him over again, but Springer made a conscious effort to relax his frame, once again seated fully in the spider’s lap. They looked at one another for a long moment, atmosphere swimming with the potency of their charge. Tarantulas’ visor flashed, as something between them finally snapped, and then they were both eagerly grinding against each other.

Tarantulas fell back further into the couch, bringing Springer with him. Springer curled forward, still clutching at his chest. He tucked his head into the fur with a choked moan, tried desperately to drag Tarantulas deeper and ride the rapidly growing swell of pleasure between them. His hips circled with hungry intent, and the rough edges of Tarantulas’ spike caught on a set of sensitive calipers, overwhelming him with a flash of paralyzing ecstasy.

Tarantulas was praising him, with hot and filthy words that made Springer’s plating _crawl_ with charge, and when Tarantulas told him that he wanted to see him overload like this- needy and desperate and _frantic-_ Springer did with enough force to make him sob.  

Tarantulas’ spike flared, ridges extending to snag the mesh walls tightening around them, and it _hurt_ but in the kind of way that dragged after it a wave of unbearable heat. The spines still dragged insistently, and Springer knew he’d be raw later, but right now he didn't care. Tarantulas was on the verge of overload too, and he kept up a steady grind. Despite the previous overload Springer’s valve clenched, trying to keep the head against his ceiling node.

Some of the initial franticness had abated, and now Tarantulas rocked gently, rhythmically, so that each slow scrape of his spike on oversensitized mesh had Springer seeing Primus. It wasn't enough.

“ _Harder_ ,” he insisted, grasping blindly for Tarantulas’ servo beside him. Tarantulas grabbed the questing limb, and interlaced his claws with Springer’s fingers, before setting a more thorough pace, which Springer met as best as he could. He purposely rippled his valve around the spike, and Tarantulas arched.

“How’s  _that_ for a Wrecker?” Springer managed. Tarantulas turned a moan into a short laugh.

“Silly boy,” he said. “ _You’re_ the one with a spike lodged so far up his valve, it might as well be in his internals. It isn’t a _competition_.” His voice was still irritatingly steady, but beginning to crack at the edges.

“I just,” Springer gasped out, before getting sidetracked by a particularly deep grind. “I just want you to feel this good too,” he finished shakily. To his surprise, Tarantulas shivered.

“You really _are_ too sweet,” the spider murmured, and he seemed momentarily riveted by the small, sincere smile Springe managed in return.

Springer took advantage of Tarantulas’ momentary distraction to mouth at the plating in front of him. He dug his fingers between chest seams to prod roughly at sensitive cables, and - _finally-_ Tarantulas overloaded with a breathy, staticky moan, and a buck of his hips.

The spines on the spike flared, and Springer jerked in surprise. They grew bigger, firmer, pressing into his valve mesh until a flash of sharp pain radiated up his array.

“Tara... _what_..?” he forced out, squirming away from the stimulation until he quickly learned that excessive movement only heightened the unpleasant feeling.

“Shhh it’s fine, lovely. Just relax, and I’ll take care of you,” Tarantulas soothed, though he sounded more than a little dazed. The pain had started to diminish; it left behind a dull throb, and when Springer attempted to readjust himself again, Tarantulas leaned into him with a groan. Despite the warm pulse of transfluid that followed, and the firm grip on his valve, Tarantulas continued their lethargic grind, and Springer was forced along on the ride.

Every slight tug of the barbs at Springer’s mesh, every torturous grind forward- they had him nearly whimpering. The spines still snagged, and dug harshly into his nodes, but the pain took a backseat to the intense flashes of heat that they induced, and as he collapsed farther into Tarantulas’ comforting mass he softly asked for more.

Tarantulas was still overloading, filling him up and shivering through the spasms that rocked his frame with every pulse of transfluid, but he reached between them and grasped at Springer’s neglected spike. A few strokes and encouraging words were all it took to send him down one last blissful spiral.

Springer heard Tarantulas murmur something in his stupor. Something that sounded suspiciously like.. eggs, and how lovely Springer would be. They would be? Springer didn’t have the energy to ask him about it, but he resolved to do so in the morning. He had.. questions.

Instead, Springer burrowed closer with a satisfied sigh, closed his optics, and trusted that Tarantulas would take care of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not pictured in this chapter: Springer shouting _"hardcore parkour" _as he vaults off a wall and lands on Tara with an ‘oof’.__  
>  __  
> I dropped an excessive amount of hints in this chapter, so I'm sure we're all very aware at this point of what Tara would like to do to Springer. He almost lost it there in the middle poor spide.  
>  __  
> Springer's just too curious for his own good >;D  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Springer finds out what Tarantulas' plans for him really are, and he's not as put-off as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A better chapter summary would be this http://imgur.com/a/erWe8
> 
> ...as writing this during breaks was the only way I survived my term papers. 
> 
> This is where the breeding/ovi tags become relevant! For all of you out there who were waiting for this moment ;D

_Eggs._

Tarantulas wanted to put _eggs_ in him.

Springer stared at the ceiling from where he lay in his berth, and tried to wrap his processor around the idea. He wasn’t... _opposed_ exactly, but to say he was unnerved would be a massive understatement.

He’d finally wheedled the confession out of Tarantulas, tired of waiting for whatever it was that the spider wanted from him, and when he had- well, Springer hadn’t really been prepared for the answer. It explained some of Tarantulas’ hesitance- no doubt afraid that moving too quickly would scare Springer into retreating- but made it no less... bizarre.

Cybertronians were either forged or cold-constructed, they didn’t.. _give birth_ , not like organics; though after having experienced so many of Tarantulas’ other proclivities Springer couldn’t say he was _surprised_ that his tastes ran on the _unconventional_ side.  

Still.. _eggs._

Tarantulas had explained that it was a mimicry, emulating organic pregnancy in some ways, but not entirely. The lifeforms within the eggs were just like Springer- created artificially in Tarantulas’ lab- but this time designed to gestate inside another cybertronian. They’d already been infused with Tarantulas’ CNA, so the sparklings would take after him, but they needed somewhere to mature. They’d absorb important metals and CNA from the carrier- Springer, in this case- once they were nestled inside, as well as form an attachment to the warm frame and field encasing them.

To Springer’s eternal mortification, that was when his fans had kicked on with a stutter. Tarantulas had begun to ramble in his enthusiasm- as he often did when he delved into the scientific aspects of something he’d been working on- but he had paused in the middle of his explanation to stare, and the _look_ he’d directed at Springer had been so ravenous that it had sent him scrambling back to his room.

Springer recharged with Tarantulas for the most part, but it was a relief to have a space of his own, where he could retreat when he needed to think. As he lay in his berth, staring up at the ceiling above, he tried to banish the heat that was making it hard to do just that.

Tarantulas wanted to put eggs in him. He wanted to fill Springer up with his _sparklings_ and the very idea had charge curling warmly in his chassis, and buzzing low under his armor. Weird as it was, Springer _wanted_ it. He was embarrassingly aroused by the thought of Tarantulas staking such a thorough claim on his frame and spark, and he could practically feel the ghost of a warm and heavy frame pressing him into the berth. His vents opened further in an attempt to expel the excess heat, but it proved largely futile as Springer continued to fantasize.

The ovipositor wasn’t natural; Tarantulas had installed it after his other techno-organic upgrades, and now Springer knew _exactly_ what the slim appendage above Tarantulas’ spike was for. The fact that it was a purposeful alteration, that Tarantulas had installed it in preparation for _this,_ had been planning this for so long; it was enough to make Springer’s circuits burn.

… And when had his fingers drifted to his panel?  

Springer gave in with a shudder, and kneaded roughly at the metal in an attempt to ground himself. The sharp pleasure which shot through his array nearly stalled his engine, and he repeated the movement, grinding down into his palm with more force than before until he saw stars. He threw his head back against the pillow with a strained groan, never letting up on the pressure as he shuttered his optics and let himself _imagine_.

Tarantulas on top of him; the reassuring weight of his frame securing him to the berth. Low murmurs that set Springer’s sensornet ablaze, as the spider outlined _exactly_ what he wanted to do to him step-by-excruciating-step, followed by a slow grind. Springer cursed aloud as the image intensified the throbbing behind his panels, and he rubbed firmer circles in a desperate attempt to soothe the ache.

Tarantulas would use his limbs to touch every available inch of plating. He’d stroke the seams in Springer’s chest, and the vent in the middle, even brushing inside so that the slats quivered. He’d play with the tires on his shoulders- and now Springer reached up, grabbed one of them and _squeezed_ until the rubber gave way beneath his fingers, and his hips jerked helplessly in response. 

Most importantly, Tarantulas would slip that bizarrely enticing ovipositor inside Springer’s very wet and _very_ willing valve. It was slim and unassuming, but Springer envisioned the _stretch_ that would follow as each of the eggs made its way through the channel and he overloaded with a strangled moan, pressing into his servo in an attempt to heighten the ecstasy. Lubricant splattered against the inside of his cover, and seeped through the seams to pool on the berth as he shook through the release.

After the waves had subsided, leaving his valve pulsing weakly, Springer was overcome by the urge to race back to where he had left Tarantulas, and demand that he follow through. He forced the urge back, aware in the back of his processor that this wasn’t something to rush into, no matter how much his frame- and mind- insisted that the only way to sate this feeling was to be _filled_.

Springer vented harshly, and shook his head in an attempt to clear the fog from his processor. He’d at _least_ give it a couple hours’ thought. That was enough right? It gave him time to clean up and figure out what to say, _especially_ after his earlier...reaction. Springer shifted uncomfortably; the stickiness between his thighs reminded him of the mess he’d made of himself, and he grimaced.

Swinging his somewhat shaky legs off the berth, Springer headed for the washracks.                                                                                         

___________________________________

 

Several _torturous_ hours later, Springer was on his way to Tarantulas’ room. His desire hadn’t abated in any way; if anything it had only increased. Thoughts of the eggs, and the possibility of sparklings with Tarantulas- of a family tying them together even more- they’d plagued him for the better part of the afternoon. Springer wanted to make Tarantulas happy, but It was also something that _he_ wanted more and more as he considered it.

They had a future here on this planet. A perfect future, undisturbed by the outside world. If carrying a.. clutch.. was what it took for Tarantulas to fully trust him, then so be it. It was far from a hardship. His spark fluttered at the thought of sparklings running around, made from the two of them, a product of their joining.

Springer would finally get to help build that future, in more ways than one.

As far as the _process_ was concerned, well- the slickness behind his panels was hard to ignore. He’d tried in vain to banish all thoughts of the ovipositor, but it had refused to leave his processor. Another overload in the washracks had done nothing to quench his arousal, and he’d just given up after that.

Springer knew how much Tarantulas wanted to use it on him, which in turn made _him_ want it more, and Primus he just- he just _wanted._ His valve cycled down on nothing again, and to his irritation a bead of lubricant managed to get past his panel and begin the slide down his inner thigh. One way or another, Tarantulas was gonna help him with this.

When he entered the room, Tarantulas was already in the berth reading a datapad. His head snapped up as Springer stepped through the doorway, and his claws tightened nearly imperceptibly.

“Ostaros,” he acknowledged mildly. “Are you done hiding from me?”

A brief flash of indignation.

“I wasn’t.. hiding,” grumbled Springer as he approached the berth. He slid in, appreciating the warmth radiating off of Tarantulas’ frame as he pressed up against his side.

“Oh? How _curious_ ,” remarked Tarantulas. “I must have been mistaken.” His tone implied otherwise, but Springer elected to ignore it.

“I just needed some time to think”.

He stared resolutely at the berth in front of him, more than aware of the optics burning a hole in the side of his helm.

“And have you come to a conclusion?” asked Tarantulas softly. His claws were at Springer’s throat, but it was only to toy absently with the collar- another reminder of the thoroughness of Tarantulas’ claim, and a gesture that was no doubt intended to incite the heat that pooled in Springer’s tank.

Tarantulas brushed against the scars, still prominent despite the fact that the venom was now only used occasionally, on those nights that Springer asked. The pitted metal was horrifically sensitive, and even the light touch burned straight to his spark.

“I’ll carry the eggs,” conceded Springer hoarsely. His voice cracked at the end, but it was covered up by the eager rumble of Tarantulas’ frame.

“Are you sure?” he purred, clearly beyond pleased, but giving Springer another chance to change his mind. Or perhaps, as was more likely, he just wanted to hear Springer say it again. His field _oozed_ satisfaction.

“Yeah,” Springer began roughly. He reset his vocalizer, before trying again. “Yeah, I want this.”

Tarantulas took hold of Springer’s chin, and turned his head so that he was forced to meet the hungry gaze. He bit his lip to hold back the moan that threatened to spill over.

“ _Now?”_

Springer hesitated-  _don't you think you should wait a little-_ but the pure unadulterated _want_ which Tarantulas' field inflicted on him was too much to resist.

“..Now.”

Tarantulas surged forward, and within moments had Springer positioned in his lap, back to chest, with thighs spread. He tapped at Springer’s panel- a silent command- and Springer didn’t even think to disobey. His relief was palpable when the swollen mesh was exposed to the cool air, and the trapped lubricants were free to run down his thighs.

Tarantulas froze at the first rush of slickness across his servo, and when he spoke it was very carefully. There was a tightness to his voice, a sudden tautness to his frame- as though he were trying very hard to hold something back.

“Have you been like this all day, darling?”

Springer nodded weakly, not bothering to deny what he couldn’t hide. Tarantulas’ fans rattled as he took in a deep, steadying vent, and he pulled Springer in tighter. Claws parted the mesh of his valve before slipping inside.

The unabating arousal and failed self-service had made him pliable, and the excessive amount of lubricant that seeped out allowed him to take two claws without a hitch. They curled and pressed at one of Springer’s favorite clusters, and he moaned his approval.

“Poor thing,” Tarantulas murmured. “You should have come to me sooner.” There were three claws in his valve now, stretching him meticulously, and catching on all the right modes. Springer sank further into Tarantulas’ embrace, allowing himself to relax and enjoy the thorough mapping out of his valve; the liquid heat that followed.

“You’re _soaked,_ pet,” Tarantulas observed with relish; no doubt just to see Springer squirm. His faceplates burned. “Absolutely _dripping_. Has this all been because of me?” Springer turned his head and buried his face in the fur of Tarantulas’ shoulder, in an effort to hide from the smug gaze.

Tarantulas was undeterred.

“You have to tell me what you need Ostaros. How can I help you otherwise?”

Oh, that was just _cruel._ Springer loved it. He loved him.

“Inside me,” Springer said a little thickly, voice further muffled by the fur, but Tarantulas didn’t make him repeat himself, only gave an amused huff. He toyed with Springer’s swollen node absently, and Springer hissed.

“But I _am_ inside you pet. Did you need something else? A spike?” cooed Tarantulas.

Springer tried desperately to answer, but every time Tarantulas pressed down on his node his vents caught, and it took several hiccupping starts to get anything out.

“ _Your ovipositor,_ ” he gasped, before Tarantulas could resume his torture.  “Please, I need it; I need you to _fill_ me, it’s all I’ve been able to think about, _please_ just-” the ensuing surge of lust from Tarantulas’ field would have been enough to bowl Springer over had he not been seated firmly in his lap, and it wiped out anything else he might have had to say.

Springer found himself floating on a haze of fuzzy contentment and when Tarantulas guided him forward onto his knees and forearms he went willingly. Primus, he went willingly. The firm press of Tarantulas’ furry thighs against the back of his own made him dizzy with anticipation.

Springer pushed back into the plush surface, and into the contrasting hard metal of the spike which had been released during their transition. It rubbed tantalizingly against throbbing mesh, but Tarantulas didn’t slip the head in. No, something else was nosing at the swollen entrance of his valve. Thin, smooth, and segmented- everything that Springer had been dreaming about for the past few agonizing hours.

It met virtually no resistance as it nudged inside, and began to creep farther up his valve at an enthusiastic pace. Springer knew what it was seeking- Tarantulas had told him before that he’d installed a gestation tank after he’d brought him here, something Springer might have found invasive before, but now only made him burn hotter with the knowledge of what was to come.

The ovipositor was slender; too slender and smooth to provide anything but the slightest stimulation, and Springer’s valve clutched at it eagerly, seeking some kind of relief besides the occasional teasing brush. Tarantulas’ vents stuttered, and he ground his hips against the rim of Springer’s valve in a movement that had Springer groaning into his arms.

“ _Tarantulas,”_ he moaned. He was hushed, and claws caressed the seams of his back where his rotors folded in, slid down to the sides of his thighs and ran along them reassuringly.

Tarantulas’ hips had begun to twitch minutely; small grinding motions that put delicious pressure on the nodes lining the rim of his valve. Springer spread his thighs wider in an attempt to aid the ovipositor as it crept to the back and brushed teasingly across his ceiling node, seeking its prize.

When the tip found his chamber it nudged against the closed entrance, and finding no way in, wriggled insistently against the center until it pierced through and forced the mechanism to spiral open.

It was so _deep_ inside- deeper than any spike- and the _feel_ of it prodding against Springer’s new internals as it settled in a place suitable for its clutch set off a repeated mantra of “oh _Primus_ yes please, _please”_ which would probably embarrass Springer come morning.

All further thoughts were banished from his processor as the ovipositor began to expand. It grew in thickness until it filled the space in his valve easily, and then even further. Springer grabbed at the mesh covers in front of him, bunched them up so that he had something to grip tight and bury his face in, trying to stifle the broken moan that followed.

The ovipositor was still too smooth, but it didn’t _matter_ because as it swelled and filled all the available space in Springer’s valve it began to press hard against each of his nodes, even those oft missed by a spike. The unrelenting pressure soon had Springer clutching at the berth, and he shoved his face further into the covers with a whine.

The sudden _pulsing_ of the ovipositor was almost enough to break him, and his calipers bore down on the appendage in helpless arousal.

From behind Springer came a long, appreciative groan, and something shifted near the entrance to his valve. The reality of the situation hit him like a triple-changer, and a bolt of white-hot pleasure nearly knocked him offline in it’s intensity. Springer was being _bred_ and pit, if it wasn’t the hottest thing that’d ever happened to him.  

Tarantulas curled over his back and pressed him down into the berth. Springer was surrounded by reassuring heat and Tarantulas’ ragged vents; the heady scent of warm lubricant mixed with the familiar scent that was all Tarantulas- chemicals and hot ozone and musky fur. His weight bore down on Springer- pinned him securely- and a hot vent grazed his audial.

“Our eggs are going to be so _beautiful,_ ” Tarantulas murmured. “Look at you. Your frame is _perfect-_ big and strong; so open and ready to accept my clutch…”

Springer’s engine revved desperately, and the ensuing vibrations dragged a ragged gasp from Tarantulas. His spark was throbbing in time with his valve in delirious ecstasy, and when Tarantulas asked whether he was ready Springer nodded fervently into his pile of blankets. The anticipation _burned_.

The first egg pressed against the rim of his valve, and the rippling pulsations of the ovipositor which had seemed so faint earlier now sent throbbing, heady pleasure through the nodes that it trapped. Springer squirmed in an attempt to alleviate the intensity but he was stuck on the hot and flexible length, and it merely bowed with him.

The pulsing pulled him into a slow, shuddering overload, and as his calipers quivered the first egg pushed in farther, attempting to breach the rim, but finding resistance. Springer felt a brief flash of anxiety. It was too big it would never fit oh _Primus-_

Springer’s valve burned as the egg popped past the entrance of his valve, and his calipers clenched weakly around the sphere as the ovipositor continued to push. Springer moaned obscenely as it traveled sluggishly up his valve. The egg was still too big- it pressed so hard on swollen nodes that they ached and he _loved_ it.

He arched into Tarantulas’ hold and was pressed back down, the weight and cage of the spider’s frame reminding Springer that he was trapped; that he could only let himself be bred.

“Shhh,” Tarantulas soothed. “They’re all for you, Ostaros,” he said breathlessly. “Just for you”.

There was no reprieve. As soon as the first egg had made it halfway, the next was nudging determinedly against Springer’s rim, breaching it with far less trouble- though the stretch was still significant.

“Ple-” Springer tried, but his voice degraded into static, and his optics flickered fitfully as Tarantulas raked claws across his chest vent. Claws moved down to stroke at the sensitive circuits in his groin. The resulting clench dragged the two eggs deeper, and made room for the third which was already inching in.

The first egg was at the entrance to his gestation chamber. It squeezed its way in before being released by the ovipositor to settle at the bottom, and the thought of a whole clutch nestled within him- _Tarantulas’_ clutch was enough to make Springer overload again, clamping down on the ovipositor in rapturous appreciation

He buried his face in the berth with a keen, and bit down on the bunched up covers. This time Tarantulas overloaded as well, and the ensuing spasms forced the clutch abruptly deeper.

Springer drifted off into a cloud of bliss as Tarantulas continued to fill him up, murmuring sweet, adoring things in his audial. He was being split open by - how many was that? He’d lost count. At least six eggs, probably more. He’d sunk into the berth completely, and Tarantulas followed him down so that Springer’s entire world consisted of the heat of his frame, the all-consuming ecstasy of their joining, and the swell of his chamber with every new addition.

“You were made for this, don’t you see?” asked Tarantulas. “You’ll carry my eggs, and we’ll have such _beautiful_ spiderlings together. I’ll keep you filled up with clutch after clutch, never let you get empty for too long…” he promised fervently, and Springer sobbed quietly into the berth.

There was another egg making its way into his chamber sluggishly, but it was struggling to find room amidst all the others, and Springer panted as it rolled back and forth against a node cluster.

“Last one,” encouraged Tarantulas, though his own voice was unsteady, and his thighs trembled. “You want to be full don’t you? After all, you’re going to be _such_ a beautiful carrier. You’ll keep our eggs warm and safe, and I’ll give you everything you need".  His field blanketed Springer, seeping into his frame as it reverberated with Tarantulas’ pleasure.

Springer moaned low in his throat as he was tipped over the edge one more time, and the tightening of his valve around the ovipositor was enough to encourage the last egg to squeeze itself amidst the others. He had enough presence of mind to appreciate Tarantulas’ muffled keen, and the way his claws dug into the berth as his own release took him.

Springer collapsed, completely drained. The weight of the eggs stuffed into the safety of his chamber was even more apparent now, though he doubted it would show much beyond his thick armor. Tarantulas had followed him, and even dazed was attempting to shift some of his weight off of Springer’s frame. His engine purred and stuttered in the aftermath.

“They’re going to love you,” Tarantulas mumbled happily against his throat, and Springer’s spark flared. Tarantulas moved enough to pull Springer onto his side and against him, so that he could rub gently at the slight curve which had appeared on his midsection.

_Huh. Guess it does show._

“You’re a menace, you know that?” grumbled Springer fondly. He _was_ aware of the subtle manipulation that had occurred. After all, he had asked, but Tarantulas hadn't hesitated to seize the opportunity. Mild chagrin tinged Tarantulas’ field but there was no apology forthcoming, and Springer hadn’t expected one

Springer sighed. His frame was overtaxed and exhausted. He was full, and groggy, and he didn’t even want to _think_ about dealing with the mess in the morning. All that aside, his field hummed with satisfaction.

He pressed closer to Tarantulas and shuttered his optics.

“I love you,” he mumbled, and the tender embrace which he was quickly enfolded in was answer enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's left kudos and comments so far!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Springer's a proud parent, and Tarantulas remains pragmatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've managed to sneak some Tara POV into this one, for those of you curious as to what his thought-process is like~

The eggs had grown over the past couple of weeks, tucked safely inside of Springer’s chamber where they could draw materials from his frame in preparation for their eventual emergence. Whenever he pressed against the curved expanse of his midsection he was comforted by the way the nearly-discernable shapes shifted under his armor. His chamber had expanded alongside them, and despite his frame type- which hid most of the changes- the swell of his plating was now slightly more noticeable than at the start, proof of its precious cargo. 

Springer was both enjoying and becoming increasingly frustrated by his condition. Tarantulas had- unsurprisingly- proven himself to be a devoted, but overprotective sire. He was keen to bring Springer additive-rich energon and treats, to coo words of praise and reassurance in his audials and make sure that he was comfortable. On the _ other  _ hand, he was also keen to make sure Springer didn’t overexert himself, and the pampering had him growing quickly restless.

To Springer’s frustration, Tarantulas had been too cautious lately even to spike him, but thankfully he had wheedled his way to a compromise- partly aided by Tarantulas’ obvious arousal regarding his current state. While the ache in his valve remained largely unsatisfied by toys, Springer had been seeing a lot of Tarantulas’ valve lately, and so he could hardly complain.

According to Tarantulas’ scans they were close to being ready, and he’d indicated earlier today that it wouldn’t be long before Springer’s frame decided it was time to evict the eggs which had made themselves so comfortable within his frame. A multitude of emotions had swirled through Springer’s processor at the revelation; sadness, apprehension, but above all,  _ excitement. _

Even now, Springer grinned to himself.  _ Sparklings _ \- unconventional ones- but sparklings nonetheless. He couldn’t wait.

And it seemed his frame was in agreement, because as Springer began to fantasize about their sparklings once more-  _ what they might look like, who they would take after _ \- his midsection suddenly twinged. It would have been unconcerning, had it not been quickly followed by a stronger ripple, and he vented harshly, grabbing at his armor as his frame began to ping him insistently.

The pings were wholly unfamiliar; no doubt another part of the alien process Tarantulas had subjected him to, and Springer quickly decided that this wasn’t something to handle on his own. He activated his comms, and reached out for Tarantulas, never very far these days. 

[Something’s happening. I think it might be time, but I’m not sure.] He knew nothing about this. He could only hope that this was normal.

Springer heard the startled way Tarantulas’ vents sucked in air even across the commline.

[Where are you? Are you close to our room?] came the sharp response.

[Yeah I’m..] Springer grunted as another uncomfortable spasm coursed through his midsection. [I’m just down the corridor.] He reached out a servo to steady himself against the tunnel.

[Good. Meet me there if you can. If not, I’ll be there soon.] A pause, and this time his voice was gentler. [You’re going to be perfectly fine Ostaros, I promise.] The connection cut off with a click.

Springer’s apprehension had lessened somewhat with Tarantulas’ reassurance, though it still lingered at the back of his processor. He began the careful walk back to their room, pausing every time a particularly strong pang wracked his abdomen, and soon he was in sight of the entrance. He walked through just as Tarantulas was rounding the corner, and was helped the rest of the way to the berth.

Tarantulas clambered in as well. He looked Springer up and down, limbs caressing and prodding at points in Springer’s midsection as a scanner was swept across his armor. Tarantulas hummed in satisfaction, as Springer looked on with mild concern. The pings hadn’t abated, and there was a rising pressure in his chamber.

“They’re ready,” Tarantulas confirmed. He was clearly enthused- practically vibrating with anticipation. His many limbs quivered.

Springer on the other hand, was feeling decidedly less confident. The spasms still occurred intermittently, and they brought a fair amount of pain. The eggs seemed to have shifted lower in his chamber, a heavy weight against the closed entrance.

“Don’t worry Ostaros. I kept your specifications in mind, and the process should be relatively straightforward- practically painless,” Tarantulas soothed.

“What do you call this then?” Springer groused in return, as another contraction seemed to pull the eggs even lower. His chamber seemed as though it were attempting to spiral open, but the pressure behind the opening made it difficult.

That being said, Springer trusted Tarantulas implicitly, and he knew that the scientist had things under control. If Tarantulas said that things were fine, well, then things were fine, and he would deal with the discomfort. As if on cue, another reassuring noise came from Tarantulas’ throat, and limbs began brushing softly against armor in rhythmic strokes.

“It’ll be better soon,” promised Tarantulas. He guided Springer onto his back, pressing gently forward until he was settled between his open thighs. “Of course, that doesn’t mean we can’t help the process along,” he mused slyly, as he reached out and rested a warm servo pointedly on Springer’s array.

Springer’s valve throbbed weakly in anticipation, and he opened his panels without prompting.

“Oh yeah?” he muttered.

“Well,  _ of course _ . First we’ve got to open you up,” said Tarantulas, before sliding down so that he level with Springer’s valve. Springer’s engine turned over haltingly, and his optics brightened when Tarantulas nuzzled at his thigh. He tried to relax into it, focus on the tingling sensation radiating throughout his field at the sight of Tarantulas between his legs, rather than the increasingly insistent contractions.

It was made easier when Tarantulas refocused his nuzzling on Springer’s bared valve, the mandibles a blissfully solid surface for him to rub against. Tarantulas encouraged the motion, pressing firmly back against Springer’s movements to ensure that the nodes at the rim of his valve ground against the ribbed expanse. Springer groaned his approval, and Tarantulas shifted so that his anterior node met the hot metal of his helm.

The mandibles eventually opened, toying with the outer mesh of Springer’s valve for a while before parting it, leaving him wide open. A teasing vent curled around the nodes closest to the surface, and he squirmed. The cramps hadn’t stopped, but they  _ had _ faded into the background as he grew increasingly more concerned with Tarantulas’ immediate plans.

Tarantulas’ glossa was long and obscene; it slithered out of his mouth and slipped into Springer’s valve before he could truly comprehend what was happening, until suddenly all of his internal nodes were lighting up. It squirmed against sensors unrelentingly, and Springer curled against the berth in ecstasy. The rim of his valve tightened vainly around its agile tormentor as it continued to seek out and target his most sensitive clusters.

Springer was venting rapidly; he could feel the slickness running down his thighs, and the slippery wet heat of Tarantulas’ glossa lapping at the inside of his valve. Primus, but he was drenched. Lubricant welled around his rim and dripped to the berth, a never-ending trickle that Tarantulas seemed more than happy to take care of as Springer moaned his praises.

He acknowledged faintly that this seemed like an excessive amount, even for a situation involving Tarantulas’  _ extremely  _ talented glossa, but was then distracted by the tip somehow managing to ghost across his ceiling node.

Tarantulas held him open and drank him down enthusiastically; licking deep until weak moans escaped Springer’s lips with every undulation. He squirmed desperately, but Tarantulas gripped his thighs and held him flush against his face, and Springer was helpless to do anything but ride the building ecstasy as it consumed his circuits.

Springer writhed and begged for some sort of relief- and Tarantulas shuddered visibly. He redoubled his efforts and then overload was sweeping over Springer in a torrent of white-hot pleasure, seizing his vocalizer and preventing him from even voicing the keen which bubbled up behind his lips.

The throbbing of his array caused one of the eggs to drop fully into position, and it began to squeeze through the entrance of his chamber, which had finally opened enough to allow the slow progression. Another one bumped up behind it, and Springer winced at the slight burn the stretch caused, not completely concealed by the remnants of his overload, though he still moaned softly through the aftershocks.

Meanwhile, Tarantulas drew back with a small sigh, licking the traces of lubricant from his maw and allowing Springer to see the entirety of the glossa which had moments before been buried in his valve. He grew weak again as he watched it disappear unassumingly into the spider’s mouth, and decided that it was something he’d definitely be taking advantage of in the future.

“Delicious,” Tarantulas purred, vocalizer thick with desire.

Springer’s valve tightened weakly in response, and the egg popped out of its position in the chamber, began making its way down to his fluttering rim. It was though a dam had burst, and suddenly the rest of them were following its lead, pushing through the path to freedom. He groaned in surprise, and Tarantulas was quick to help him to his knees in order to aid the process.

It was slow going, the eggs having grown since their initial insertion, and his calipers struggled to part for them. The stretch burned, but he wasn’t in extreme pain, and actually- the way that they rolled over sensor nodes was beginning to feel pretty.. _ good. _

Springer groaned as the first one paused, stuck behind a particularly stubborn set of calipers, and pressing into a large node cluster. More lubricant slid down his thighs, and it slipped,  _ almost  _ managing to breach the obstacle. A purposeful rippling of his valve dislodged it entirely, and Springer groaned in relief as it dropped to his rim.

“There we go,” Tarantulas murmured. “Just like that, Ostaros. Help them along”.

Springer’s vents whined as more of the eggs followed their siblings out of the chamber and began to crowd his valve. The first one peaked its head through his valve entrance, and as it strained for freedom it bore down on all of the engorged nodes lining Springer’s rim. He overloaded with a strangled shout, and the egg popped free, leaving his frame with a gush of lubricants. The second was quick to follow, using the rippling of Springer’s valve to its advantage as it tumbled after the first to the berth.

Tarantulas’ engine rumbled approvingly, and he gathered the eggs close so that he could clean them off with a rag pulled from his subspace. Springer wanted to look, but was overtaken by a stronger spasm which forced the others lower. He became caught up in a cycle of overloads and the ensuing release of eggs from his frame. His relief at the diminishing pressure was almost as strong as the pleasure crawling through his lines, and eventually he was left with only one egg, trying weakly to push itself out.

It was more difficult without the weight of the others to aid it along, but Springer’s valve had stretched, and with one more encouragement from Tarantulas, and a few failed attempts, he managed to expel it from his frame. Yet another rush of lubricant followed this one, as a final overload shuddered its way through his armor.

Tarantulas’ presence behind him was briefly acknowledged before he was being wrapped up in a warm cocoon of limbs.

“You did so well,” was sighed into his audial, and Springer was too exhausted to protest as Tarantulas’ spike slid into his still-fluttering valve. A few thrusts was all it took before Tarantulas was overloading with a breathy moan, and Springer burrowed back into the sturdy support with the knowledge that he was wanted, that he was  _ loved. _

After Springer had regained some of his strength, he sat up- tiredly but with no small amount of excitement. He wanted to  _ see _ them. Tarantulas hadn’t tied him, and his spike slid out easily as Springer moved off of it and closer to the pile, which had been placed in a makeshift nest of blankets.

Looking at them however, Springer could tell that something was wrong. Only three of the eight eggs glowed softly, biolights indicating their precious contents, and even one of those flickered weakly. The others were dull and gray- lifeless.  

“Tara,” Springer began softly, even as dismay swept over him. Maybe he was wrong. He had no experience with this kind of thing- maybe the others would be alright after all. Tarantulas would know. 

“Shh Ostaros, it's alright. This was to be expected,” said Tarantulas, even as a servo began rubbing consolingly along Springer’s back plating.

“Is it my fault?” Springer asked, as ice gripped his spark.  Had he caused this? Maybe he hadn’t fueled properly; maybe he’d moved around too much. Was his frame just not suitable for carrying? To fail Tarantulas like this was unthinkable, and as he gazed dimly at their overwhelmingly dead clutch his spark tightened unbearably in his chassis.

“Of course not,” Tarantulas crooned. “This survival rate falls within the predicted parameters. It’s  _ nothing _ that you did, pet. The fact is, most of them won’t take, won’t be successful. It’s merely part of the process. Don’t worry- you were an _ excellent _ carrier.”

Springer only looked miserably at the pile of duds. All of the anticipation of the past couple weeks seemed a wasted effort now, though he tried to focus on the three that were alive, that still held potential. He would love each and every sparkling that did emerge.

“Will it happen again?” he asked, and Tarantulas hesitated.

“The rate of success is unlikely to change, even if I tweak my calculations,” the scientist admitted. “But  _ Ostaros.  _ Look at the ones that  _ did _ develop.  They’re  _ beautiful  _ and they’re _ ours. _ They’ll be unfurling in a few days and then, well then we’ll have  _ sparklings _ .”

His enthusiasm was catching, even if the cold and hollow pit which had formed at the bottom of Springer’s tank refused to dissipate entirely, and he smiled as Tarantulas began to fawn over the pile, visor bright, and field brimming with unbridled glee.

Tarantulas told him that he would take care of the eggs, and that Springer didn’t need to worry or think about the failed attempts. The others would go to a warm incubator that had already been set up in the lab, and monitored closely.

Springer tried to shake off some of his grief, and joined Tarantulas in appreciating and marveling over their new creations.

Not all was lost.

________________

 

Tarantulas eyed the pile of non-viable eggs with some disappointment. It was unfortunate that they hadn’t gestated along with the others, but then again he hadn’t expected much better. The weak egg would likely die by the end of the day- and he was ready to console Ostaros when the inevitable happened- leaving them with only two. 

Two healthy sparklings however, was better than none, and the scans he had taken were _very_ promising. They would make it, and soon, soon they’d be a proper family. He’d never have to be alone again, unless he wished it.

_ Isolation _ was a thing of the past.

Tarantulas reeled backwards, grabbing hold of the table behind him in order to not fall over as the unbidden thought brought back  _ unpleasant  _ memories. The appalling weight of the noisemaze, a blanket of discordant sound pressing down on his consciousness and leaving him unable to move, or even think-  _ him,  _ whose mind was his refuge. The deafening cacophony which even now pierced straight to his spark, and its nauseating effect on his processor- the detestable, instinctive  _ anxiety  _ which it had induced.

And all the while, alone in his suffering, abandoned and  _ betrayed. _

Tarantulas vented harshly and attempted to reign in his momentary lapse of composure. As was common for him these days, panic had turned quickly to rage. His claws dug grooves into the metal of the table, as he reminded himself that the past was unimportant. The infuriating flash of black and white plating in the depths of his processor was eradicated as soon as it emerged. All of his plans were coming to fruition, and at the moment nothing stood in the way of his, well his  _ happiness,  _ but also his future, whatever it might contain.

He was free to experiment as he desired, and he had company. All other goals,  _ larger  _ goals, could be entertained later  thoughts of revenge even, but for now he was content with this. After all, Ostaros was even more than he could have hoped for, and now perfectly content to live as Tarantulas suggested- a pampered pet, a valued mate, someone who consented to let his ovipositor slip inside whenever he wanted.. whatever it took to ensure his continuing affections.

The legs of his alt mode wriggled a bit as intense affection suffused his spark. Yes, it was perfect.  _ Ostaros _ was perfect, and the sparklings would be as well.

Tarantulas turned his attention back to the eggs and examined them critically. Ideally, Ostaros would have taken the nutrients they had accumulated back into his own frame, but it was unlikely that Tarantulas could convince him to see reason. His emotions regarding their lost progeny would outweigh even his desire to please, and it was doubtful that he would ever see it as an acceptable option.

Tarantulas could press the issue, and Ostaros might indeed cave, but it wasn’t worth inflicting that kind of stress, or stirring up potential resentment. Incorporating the materials into his energon was also an option-it would be easy enough to slip them into the morning’s fuel- but after some consideration he determined that the fallout should Ostaros find out was too much to risk.

No, Tarantulas said he would take care of them, and so he would. He picked up the first of the duds, weighed its lost potential in his hand, and then parted his mandibles.

___________________

When Ostaros came to him later that night demanding to try again, who was Tarantulas to deny him? Especially when he writhed so beautifully beneath him. He bore down, leaning over to make sure that Ostaros heard every word of appreciation and praise.  

“I adore you,” he purred.

And it was the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe we're so close to the end! There's only the epilogue left after this. I'm glad that so many of you have enjoyed this fic, because I've sure had a lot of fun writing it. 
> 
> Special thanks to my friends for being such awful enablers of course <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor shakes things up, and a decision is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the end of the line folks! I can't believe I've finally managed to finish this monster of a fic. It grew so much larger than I planned, and writing it has been an experience to say the least. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the epilogue, and thanks so much for joining me on this mildly fucked-up journey~
> 
> A very special thanks to all of my friends/enablers, as well as anyone who's left comments or kudos. You guys definitely fueled the fire, and should be very proud of yourselves <3

He'd been here a long time, though exactly _how_ long was still unclear. His chronometers had been reactivated years ago, but they'd been wiped clean, and he was unable to account for the time in-between.

Not that it mattered in the end.

His initial protests were nothing but a distant memory- misguided and useless; they’d been nothing but detrimental to his happiness. _Stupid_ in hindsight. Because he _was_ happy, happier than he’d ever dared dream during the millions of years of war- where the focus had been survival, and subject to the machinations of Prowl command.

Here, he had stability. More importantly, he had _family_.

He and Tarantulas had fallen into a comfortable routine. The winding caverns were well under way to being developed, whole sections having been refitted for everything from living space to lab.

In the end, his wish had been granted, and he'd had a servo in the development- taking charge of the process by utilizing Tarantulas’ expansive network. He’d directed supplies and labor, and even completed a fair amount of the work himself when he needed something to do.

There’d always be room to expand, but it was starting to feel... complete. More than that, it felt like a _home_. Something he hadn't known was so important to him until the desire had been awakened by circumstance, and then refused to let go.

Other mechs had come to their planet over time- not many, but enough. Organics too, though they were still largely the minority. They never came in huge numbers, always smaller groups who stumbled upon the planet despite it's well hidden and far-off location- nestled in the shadow of a sensor-disrupting nebula.

He knew that the cloaking technology Tarantulas had been working on drew heavily from his research on the naturally occurring shield, and no doubt the scientist hoped to intensify its effects one day, and truly hide them from view.

To his initial surprise, Tarantulas hadn't turned any of the visitors away, nor had any harm come to them.

Surprising, because in Tarantulas’ optics the protection of their brood was paramount, and he invested much of his time and effort into ensuring that they remained safe- installing various defense mechanisms and failsafes around the caves.

Sometimes, it felt as though he were waiting for something, or someone.

But, when it came to _these_ arrivals he’d been strangely welcoming. None of the newcomers lived with them, and the caverns were explicitly off-limits, but slowly and surely a colony of wayward mechs and organics had settled on the surface.

The settlements could be seen in the distance, scattered across the horizon. The start of a colony which ultimately answered to those dwelling underground.

Because while Tarantulas was largely uninterested in them, he _was_ interested in the benefits they might provide in the future. He was content to leave them alone and monitor the progress of the colony from afar, so long as they respected his terms- and those terms were fairly straightforward.

He asked for materials and resources from the colonists- a quota of sorts- to be provided every month, and all drastic changes to the landscape had to be approved by him. He also offered compensation to those who volunteered their assistance with development, or alternatively, his experiments. All reasonable requests, and there had yet to be any dissent.

The new arrivals were usually unnerved enough by the massive spider to comply if they truly wanted to stay, and the feeling was only enforced when they later learned what Tarantulas had at his disposal. Agreement was easier, and it benefitted them all in the end because Tarantulas was willing to assist with the establishment of their settlements, if they could provide compensation.

It was only later that he learned Tarantulas had set up a beacon on purpose- the signal too weak to be picked up by anything other than small local ships- and broadcasted a message which encouraged such ships to land.

He could understand Tarantulas’ motivations, as life would undoubtedly be easier for their family if a community existed nearby to support them. And that family was growing quickly.

Fertility rates hadn't improved, much to his dismay. Each of the clutches he'd bore so far had been as dead as the others, but there’d been enough attempts to make up for it. Eight creations so far, each perfect and unique blends of their progenitors, and he loved them with all of his spark.

There would undoubtedly be more in the future, and he relished the thought. When Tarantulas came to him every so often with the suggestion- as he was wont to do when he needed a break from his projects and wanted to focus on _them_ \- he was more than happy to oblige. Just as Tarantulas was always happy to indulge him when the urge struck.

It was undeniable that he was well taken care of, and he wanted for nothing. Faintly, he remembered that he’d once cared about more than their borders, about his... friends? and another far-off planet, but they were nothing more than an abstract concept at the back of his processor, hazy and unimportant.

He understood what Tarantulas had been trying to teach him from the very beginning, that he was _meant_ to be here, meant to live this life. What else could compare?

And whenever it looked as if he was getting antsy- feeling a little out of sorts as the brief flickers of his old life infringed on his contentment- well, Tarantulas was quick to notice. He’d beckon him over, apologize for neglecting him and ask, often breathlessly, if he could clutch him.

Tarantulas always asked, but he never refused. He opened up for that beautifully ridged spike and heavenly ovipositor every time, and let Tarantulas breed him to his spark’s content. He welcomed the return to blissful contentment, appreciated the quelling of his doubts.

When the eggs were laid he was back to feeling at ease, waiting for and even anticipating the next time Tarantulas would fill him up. Most of the clutches weren’t viable, but the newsparks that did survive grew quickly once they hatched.

Tarantulas encouraged contact, especially in the beginning when the sparklings would latch onto his lines for sustenance, siphoning processed fuel straight from their carrier. It was unsurprising, considering what he’d seen of Tarantulas’ own cannibalistic tendencies over the years, and it didn’t pain him, actually filled him with fuzzy pride at the knowledge that he could provide for his sparklings with his frame.

To his disappointment, few of them stayed for long. He held onto hopes that one day he'd have a creation who wasn't so restless, who’d find a mate of their own in the colony and take up more permanent residence in the caverns- maybe even have creations of their own.

For now though, they were keen to wander, and Tarantulas had most of them off-world to aid in his experiments or further his network.

The youngest of their creations was still with them, and could usually be found trailing after his sire in the labs. He, like all the others, was eager to assist, but his intense interest in what Tarantulas was working on was unique.

It made him think that _maybe_ he finally had a sparkling who would linger- for awhile at least- and his spark swelled whenever he watched Roadbite stumble after his sire excitedly, saw his optics light up in wonder at the results of an experiment.

Occasionally, the others returned to visit, and then he was doted on by a creation or two as well as Tarantulas for a time. There was no doubt that his creations returned his love and devotion tenfold, and warmth gathered beneath his chestplate as he took a break from the strategy game he’d been running to note that he’d been sent communications from at least one of them today.

At the moment, there were two on planet, and Broadstrider had been showing sly interest in a mech in a nearby settlement, so perhaps he’d be staying longer this time. He was the oldest, and had spent the most time traversing the galaxy- maybe he was finally ready to try something else.

Sometimes they still asked to feed from his lines, and he gladly conceded, letting them guide him to a nest where they could latch on comfortably, fields full of appreciation for their carrier.

The ravenous looks that he received from Tarantulas every time he walked in on them were dizzying. He usually sought him out soon after, eager to frag him into the nearest surface, and more often than not he sobbed through the thorough claimings, wildly appreciating whatever it was that Tarantulas always found so appealing.

On those days Tarantulas’ own hunger was awakened; he would wheedle and beg to be allowed to sink his own fangs into him, and in the end he craned into the razor sharp mandibles willingly.

They were also the days that Tarantulas favored his ovipositor, and were well-worth the days of recuperation and extra fuel.

His fans finally kicked on with a rattle, almost startling in the silence, and he took a moment to laugh at himself. There was no use getting hot and bothered all alone, not when he had a devoted mate who was more than willing to take care of the problem. He stood up from the desk he’d been seated at, laced his fingers behind him and stretched in order to relieve the kinked wires in his back.

He headed out the door with the goal of enticing Tarantulas away from his work, but had only made it partway when he was interrupted by a strained comm.

[We have a situation. I’m dealing with it, but please refrain from leaving your room.]

[What _kind_ of situation? Where’s Roadbite?] he asked sharply.

[Safe. I had Razorweb take him deeper into the caverns. They’ll be fine.] Tarantulas sounded harried, but mostly furious, and from behind him came the distinctive sound of metal cracking as it impacted a hard surface, as well as an accompanying yell of pain.

Intruders.

In the end, the safety of his family outweighed his reluctance to go against Tarantulas’ wishes. He could still take care of himself; this life hadn’t turned him _soft._

[I’m coming to you.] And with a decisive click he ended the connection, and headed towards the sounds of combat he could now make out faintly in the distance.

He didn’t get very far. When he turned the first corner, a mech stood in his path. A familiar mech, holding a smoking gun.

As he looked at Kup, he acknowledged that he should probably be having a stronger reaction to this- seeing a mech he had once been close to, and especially after all this time, but he was largely unmoved by the sight of him, and instead concern for his family gripped his fuel tank even harder.

He knew what Kup and a decent team were capable of.

At the moment, Kup was shouting something. He’d clearly missed the start, because Kup was looking slightly irritated.

“What are you _waitin’_ for? Let’s go!”  

When he didn’t move, Kup’s scowl deepened. He furrowed his brow and jerked his head towards the tunnel to his left.

“Springer, _move_! I dunno what you’ve been through kid, and I’m sure it wasn’t pretty, but we can’t hang around alright?” he insisted. He took a step forward, and Ostaros eyed him warily. He tightened the mechanisms in his legs-  ready to act at a moment’s notice.

“That’s not my name,” he said blandly, as his right servo inched closer to the knife he had stored at his hip.

Kup blinked almost owlishly, as the cygar sagged in his suddenly slack mouth.

“What’re you _talkin’_ about kid?” he asked. “C’mon, we’ve gotta get you outta here. We’ll deal with the rest later.” Kup then reached out, and grasped his arm earnestly.

Ostaros jerked away in irritation, fighting back a brief jolt of panic. Kup wanted to tear him away from his life here, from Tarantulas, from his _sparklings_ , and he wouldn’t go without a fight. Didn’t he understand that this was his place? That _he_ was the interloper here?

“No,” growled Ostaros, as he stretched to his full height- appreciating the fact that he could once again use his size to his advantage. He punctuated the statement with a hard glare. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Kup stared in return.

“Primus, Springer. What’s he _done_ to you?” he asked with slight apprehension. He shook his head. “Look, you might not like the idea right now, but trust me, you don’t wanna stay here kid.”  It was the muttered “I’ll fragging kill ‘im” which followed that finally did it.

Ostaros surged into action. He aimed a punch at Kup’s helm, and was going for the knife at his hip before he’d even finished the sentence. Kup was still fast for an old-timer though, and he managed to duck away from the blow so that it only glanced the side of his helm.

One of Ostaros’ legs was swept out from beneath him with a well-placed kick, and he fell to a knee before he could grasp the weapon. Instead, he changed tactics, lunging forward to grab ahold of Kup’s waist, and slamming him into the wall behind them. The gun clattered to the ground.

Kup kneed at his midsection in vain, trying to get Ostaros to relinquish his tight grip, and a startled wheeze escaped him as fingers dug in hard enough to dent. Ostaros made to stand up- aim another punch at his throat- but unfortunately Kup still knew all his weak points, and he jammed his fingers deep into one of Ostaros’ more vulnerable sensor clusters, located right at the elbow hinge.

It was enough to loosen his hold, and Kup took advantage of the momentary lapse to throw his weight forward. They tumbled to the ground with Kup on top, and it quickly became a frantic grapple for the upper hand. Ostaros wrenched one of his arms away and fumbled at his waist, and this time his servos closed around the handle of the knife.

It sunk into Kup’s midsection almost too easily.

In the blink of an optic Ostaros dragged it down and across, rending metal in a swathe of destruction, and exposing crucial circuitry and wires, which spilled out alongside the gush of energon. It was far from a fatal hit, not having touched his spark, but neither was it an insignificant amount of damage, and Kup loosed a rattling gasp as the pain registered.

He looked down at Ostaros, betrayed.

Ostaros almost felt a flicker of remorse. A long-forgotten feeling stirred in his chest as he looked up at his former mentor, as the hot energon ran down his servos.

Before he could seize that feeling however, a snarling mass was pulling Kup off of him, and throwing him back against the wall.

The wave of relief which washed over Ostaros washed away the remnants of his hesitation.

Tarantulas was a bristling whirlwind of fury, and Kup’s yell of alarm turned to one of pain as Tarantulas tore one of his arms clean off. It was thrown to the floor contemptuously, and Tarantulas made quick work of the other one, energon splattering across the floor.

Ostaros watched with mild unease as Tarantulas sunk his claws in, tore open the wound he’d created with relish. However, his relief at the knowledge that his creations would be safe- that Tarantulas was here to protect them- outweighed all else. He leaned against the wall behind him, arms crossed, and surveyed the scene with dim optics. Tarantulas didn’t need his help.

He watched as Tarantulas crippled Kup’s legs with quick slashes of his talons, reinforced with material which sliced through wires like string. He watched as Kup fell to the ground, as Tarantulas shattered an optic with deliberate pressure, and cackled when Kup struggled to squirm away in vain.

“How dare you,” Tarantulas hissed, voice pure venom. “How _dare_ you invade our home?”

One of his clawed feet pressed down on the tubing which had spilled across the floor, still attached to Kup’s frame and more than capable of triggering an enormous amount of pain. Kup groaned a protest, unable to do anything with his limbs disabled.

“Go frag yerself, you mangy, backfiring, good-for-nothin’-”

“What gave you the _right?_ ” Tarantulas snarled, as though Kup hadn’t said anything.

“-filthy, rotten, slag-sucking, wall-crawling abomina-”

Tarantulas’ visor flashed, and a sharp kick was all it took to cut off the stream of insults. Then, he kneeled down, and whispered something unintelligible in his audial- something that made Kup’s face twist with anger- before he really began to tear into the other mech.  

Kup did his best to remain silent, but after a while Tarantulas’ methods became too much for even the stoic old mech to handle, and he was groaning quietly. Occasionally he would appeal to the mech that Ostaros used to be- insist that he wasn’t this bot, that ‘Springer’ wouldn’t stand for this.

It was unusual for Kup to be caught off-guard like this, for him to have no way out, but Tarantulas had set upon him with a ferocity unparalleled by most, and Ostaros had felt that strength firsthand. Kup simply had no chance to recover. He’d been effectively disabled in record time, leaving him wholly at the mercy of the furious spider, with little chance of rescue.

His team was undoubtedly dead by now, or at the very least, contained.

Ostaros finally looked away when a handful of wires was ripped out with glee, as he anticipated what would come next. The following noises proved his suspicions right. Tarantulas had never lost his taste for…. unconventional meals, and Kup wasn’t due any of the care and consideration Ostaros was. _His_ energon was a treasured treat. Kup was food.

Finally, a small part of him protested the excessive torture which Tarantulas was putting his once-friend through, and he broke his silence.

“Tara,” he murmured, and the spider looked up from where he had begun to carve out a presumably appealing internal mechanism. “Please, just end it.” The gnawing guilt was becoming discomfiting, and he wanted it gone- wanted the mech in front of him gone.

Eliminating the last of his ties to his old life was the only way he’d ensure his happiness here.

Tarantulas considered the request, claws dripping and fur matted with energon. Undoubtedly, he wanted to make Kup suffer. But finally he hummed and reached for the gun which Kup had dropped during their scuffle. He picked it up, and offered it to Ostaros.

“You do it,” purred Tarantulas.

Ostaros gazed upon the broken and bleeding mech on the ground, as he struggled to draw air through mangled vents, and pity won. He stepped forward and took the gun, weighed its lethal potential in his servo.

He then placed it in the center of Kup’s helm, just between the optics- pleading, but resigned.

Ostaros hesitated.

Kup had barged into his home. He’d threatened his _family_ , and whatever Ostaros may have once felt for the bot in front of him was gone. Leaving Tarantulas, abandoning his creations- that would never be an option.

This was the biggest obstacle standing between them and a peaceful existence. Now, he had a chance to end it once and for all, personally ensure that they remained safe in their refuge.

He imagined what might have happened if Tarantulas hadn’t been so diligent with their defenses, if he wasn’t so competent an opponent. He pictured his sparklings covered in energon, their limbs bent out of place. He saw smoke rising from blaster holes, their optics gray and lifeless, and his spark twisted.

Ostaros steeled himself, and he knew that Kup saw the hardening of his features, understood what it meant. His own face morphed into one of sad resignation, behind the pain.

“I’m so sorry kid,” he said, vocalizer nearly cracking at the end.

Ostaros pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the chapter didn't read too awkwardly! I felt that wrangling all of those 'hims' was worth it in the end, to stave off the name reveal >;D
> 
> Naming the spider babs was tricky, but very very fun, and since they're going to be popping up again, maybe soon I'll have some pics for you all. 
> 
> Broadstrider definitely takes after his dad, being almost full spide,  
> but with some of mama's colors. Warning: pic of an actual tarantula behind the link http://imgur.com/a/EaM4F
> 
> Roadbite is gonna be a triple changer, with a frame more like Springer's and vehicle modes, but I imagine he's purple with a few cute lil spide features (Visor, mandibles, antenna, feet).
> 
> Razorweb is??? Mysterious for now (read: I didn't get this far).
> 
> And yes, I did say again! Did you think this was the end?? Instead of alternate endings, the lovely DinobotGlitch and I have decided to partner up and turn this into a trilogy. We can't promise when the next installment will be up, but hopefully we'll get it started sometime in the fall. 
> 
> In the meantime, I've got a million other fics to work on, so you can definitely expect some more one-shots from me as the summer goes on. 
> 
> Until next time!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [On the Mating Habits of a Massive Spiderbot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9681449) by [StarlightCaptivator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightCaptivator/pseuds/StarlightCaptivator)




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